


You and me could write a BAD romance

by maybeillride



Series: Bad Romance [1]
Category: Free!
Genre: 'Fateful Encounters' (ah Mako...), ...and the OT4 ship's FINALLY in :), A Drastic Return to Sexytimes, A little love for SouMako, AUTHOR AU, Angst, Botched Stakeouts, CFO!Gou, Confessions always go better over cocoa, Deeply needed some odd-couple SouHaru, Depressed and/or drunken confessions, F/F, F/M, Five guys on the fuck-up spectrum, Fluff, Friendship, Gou's a muscle-sexual, Haru gets some overdue attention, Haru. IS. AquaMan, Humor, Kisumi earns a 'Kiss', M/M, Mistress!Miho, More beginnings and endings..., Multi, Naughty snoopy Haru, Pornstars!Rin & Mako, Rei is no-one to be trifled with, Rin and Haru are too pretty, Shameless wallowing, Smut, Sou and Haru finally reach The End, Sousuke gets a clue, The boys look GOOD in tuxes, agent/PR-guru!Nagisa, also adding tumblr-buddy!Kisumi, editor!Rei, nerd/geek/weirdo!Haru, super-pumped-up-jock!Sousuke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:49:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 39
Words: 207,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybeillride/pseuds/maybeillride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haru's a gifted smut author, if a little (well... a LOT) weird, but as a 30-year-old virgin doesn't have a shred of practical experience.</p><p>Sousuke's an up-and-coming gay romance author with so many notches in his bedpost God knows how it's still standing... but has a tin ear for actual relationships.</p><p>Naturally, they're destined (doomed?) for each other. And that's not even mentioning the other three clowns waiting in their wings...</p><p>[Please consider subscribing - I would LOVE to "have you along"! :D]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hardcore dolphin-dick-a-thon again?

“I’m in the study!” Rei calls through the open door, leaning back in his deliciously pamper-y desk chair enough to slide out the little leg-rest. He flicks on the soft spot-lamp beside him – that cues his brain that it’s time to focus as much as his eyes – and pulls the neatly-bound manuscript onto his lap. Then he sighs, deeply, completely unaware he’s doing so. He flips past the title page.

“I’m your buddy? Why, thank you, honey!” he hears from somewhere out in the condo. Nagisa’s Playing Dumb is Olympic-level. And he loves it. Nagisa, that is; Rei can take or leave it but he indulges his husband in this as in so many other things.

“…Your wit staggers me, dear! STUDY!” he bellows.

“You don’t have to yell, jeez, Rei-chan. Raised in a barn?” Nagisa’s in the door, leaning against the jamb and utterly unapologetically wearing a fuchsia Snuggie and drinking something that matches from one of their tall tumblers. With his swirly silly-straw. This is a man whose uncannily flawless instinct for what will be big, cozy people-skills, and overall polished professionalism have built their indie publishing house into the surprising player it is today.

And there he is, smirking and thoroughly enjoying his full-on hedonism experience at 2PM on a Tuesday. Rei hangs onto a poker-face with every shred of willpower he has.

“Sooo – _I_ have an interesting task ahead of me today. Want to know what this is?” He holds the virgin manuscript up for Nagisa to see.

“Um. ‘Managing Your Erotic Secondary-School Swim-Team Urges for Morons?”

Rei busts into His Laugh, the one Nagisa called his “Count Chockula” a long time ago and stuck. “Oh…oh, no… That’s not too far off, actually,” he giggles. He hitches a few breaths and finds himself sighing again. “Actually, it would be a far easier task if that’s all it was. It’s Haruka’s latest.”

Nagisa’s grin instantly morphs into a weird look he only gets when Haruka x writing comes up, thoughtful concern doing a bad job hiding glimmering interest. Concern wins and he groans softly.

“Ohhhh, Rei-chan…wonder what this one’s gonna be. Hardcore dolphin-dick-a-thon again? ‘Cause, like, WOW –”

“Right?”

“- I mean, God only knows how he kept those guys going that long. Like, wow. WOW.” Nagisa shakes a hand in the air in the universal gesture for ‘like, WOW’ and comes over to plant a surprisingly soft kiss on his forehead. “Don’t forget to move occasionally, K? And bathroom breaks. Take bathroom breaks. ‘Cause, _ew._ I’ll yell at ya when it’s dinnertime.” He rubs his forehead against Rei’s briefly.

“You’re cooking?”

“…let’s not go nuts, Rei-chan.”

*

Rei has basically zero idea of what spectacularly-bizarre, dirty, and uncommercial concoction Haruka has in store for them this time. He’s been characteristically cagey on the content, length, even format – it could be a radio-play about a dub-con encounter with Niagara Falls in 72 acts, for all he knows. (And now that he’s thought this, he’s sure that’s what it is in some terrible horror-story magic-mindreading-book way.)

The only constants are a tone that straddles the line between erotica and porn – sometimes diving screaming over it – the gay focus, and … the wet. All the wet, SO much wet. Their beloved lifelong friend has parlayed his water monomania into his writing. They always joked (and in Nagisa’s case, mercilessly teased) that if he loved water so much, he should just marry it. Well, their joke has become a sort of sad reality in their adulthood: human (and sometimes creature) casts may play, but the star is always water.

And Rei feels the deep, melancholic ache that always hits him whenever he picks up a manuscript by Nanase Haruka. He cannot help but be washed over every time by the sheer virtuosic _beauty_ of the man’s words, that fills him with the bubbly feeling of sheer giddy joy only he can call up, that makes him want to rip pages out randomly and wander the city tacking them up like a deranged Martin Luther for everyone to read. Then the thinking part of his brain budges back in and reminds him this is the world, and the world isn’t fair, and they’re trying to run a business, and businesses sorta need to sell things to stay IN business, even the weird gay niche-y indie ones. So he accepts each neatly-bound manuscript with an increasingly-sad series of sighs.

He flips it open again.

*

_~ first interlude ~_

_Tower_

_Twin towers_

_Nameless multitudes –_

_A gathering…melt, merge, meld_

_Side-by-side – arm-in-arm – press blend_

 

_Roar_

_Roaring_

_Wordless howl –_

_Sending up out…down, down, down_

_Fragile chest – skyward V – shake break_

 

_Mist_

_Misting_

_Curtains hide –_

_Hang heavy…hang cold hang thick_

_Drapes strain – mouthing touch – gentlest kiss_

 

_Pound_

_Pounding_

_No secrets_

_Full intrusion…full clarity_

_Single point – blown wide – whirling bliss_

 

_Niagara! –_

 

Rei slams the folder shut with a terrified “eep!”

*

He’s on the phone in the next ten minutes. The dial tones gently pulse. He would normally email their phone-averse friend/client, but the seriousness of the situation requires the (questionable…) power of verbal communication.

“Rei.” Silence follows. Any other author on their roster would be clawing his throat open for what he thought of their latest offering, maybe hunting for compliments. Not Haruka. …MOST emphatically not-Haruka. He hears the writer cough with the phone held away then he’s back, unexpectedly. “How are you and Nagisa?” The subtle warmth and affection in his voice make Rei feel someone’s stabbing him. In the heart, more specifically.

“Haruka…my…dear, dear Haruka…-senpai.” He’s tacking on the honorific before he knows it, the other half of his old friend’s name he’s dropped years ago but somehow feels he needs right now. “Well, it’s about your manuscript.”

“Hmmm. Fast-reader as always, Rei.” He hears the ghost of a smile in Haruka’s voice and feels even worse.

“Yes. Well…

“I think it’s time we met with the fixer.”

***

Rei and Nagisa’s swank yet comfortable Tokyo [condo](http://tokyoapartmentinc.com/system/page/13718.html), if interested! (Totally stole the add-links-to-items-in-their-world thing from [Toast_Senpai](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Toast_Senpai/pseuds/Toast_Senpai/works?fandom_id=865923)…sorry/thanks for that)


	2. Operation: Don’t Let Haru Go Serial-Killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was floored and touched (hmmm...that sounds sorta bad) by the wonderful comments on ch. 1. It's my absolute pleasure to have folks along with me on this weird, silly and smutty (soon, soon) ride :)

The senior itamae-san moves with absolute precision and grace as he prepares the orders of the couple down the bar, each knife stroke having a purpose in bringing their sushi to beautiful life. Rei blinks and realizes he’s been full-on staring at the entrancing little scene for a good five minutes and quickly looks away. He doesn’t want to make them feel uncomfortable.

“…you OK, Rei-chan?” Nagisa leans in, touching his thigh under the counter, his own unique brand of concern tugging at the corners of his eyes. “Awfully quiet today. Especially for you.” He takes a sip from his strawberry Ramune soda then fidgets with the bottle to shake the marble in the neck, making Rei feel better that it seems he isn’t the only nervous one here.

“Oh, I’m…I’m just hoping this all goes alright today. I was just thinking, as I watched them down there...” He discreetly tips a finger at the sushi-chef who is now sliding his mini works of art onto the couple’s plates. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have such a straightforward job? To have such clear expectations of what’s good and bad, and get to feel so satisfied when you’re good enough, and make your customers happy when they get your beautiful creations…” He trails off, staring again. Thankfully, Nagisa breaks his melancholy-moment with a giant snort. It’s loud enough to get a confused look from the couple.

“Um, NO, I can honestly say I’ve never wished to be an itamae. Damn, honey, you know the stuff they go through to get out front? Years stuck on the rice station to prove they ‘understand the grains’. Getting slapped around if they don’t line them up all going the same direction. Actually sorta hot when you think about it.” He has the twinkling in his eyes now that will always say “Nagisa” to Rei and he smiles; he adores his man’s incredible ability to find the (sexy) silver lining in any situation. He knows it’s a major reason they’re so good at hunting down unfound gems and getting them out to a ravenous readership, gay, straight, and all combinations of the above; he also knows it keeps him going at times when he’s tempted to pull away into full brood mode. He knows Nagisa’s right, too, even though he clearly wasn’t making a deep philosophical statement. Just because something looks easy doesn’t mean it is. And clear-cut/black-and-white tasks may be tempting but there are rewards to murkier challenges, like they face today…he hopes.

Suddenly overcome, he leans in and casually brushes his lips against the smaller man’s ear; he could simply be telling him a secret. They both know better.

“Welll! Didn’t know you had a sushi kink, sweetie. Lemme make a note.” Nagisa pulls his giant-screen smartphone from an inside pocket of his quirky teal designer blazer and – yes – swipes off a quick memo.

“Nagisa –” Rei pleads, out of habit. The little blond smirks and slides off his seat.

“Too much nectar, gotta pee. Keep your eyes peeled for Haru, K? Wouldn’t want him wandering off and sitting with some other hot gay couple.” He slides a hand across the dark wool tightly stretched over Rei’s ass as he passes on the way to the bathroom. Rei clears his throat and readjusts the napkin on his lap.

Their friend is late but Rei knows not to worry – they’ve built a 45-minute cushion into the meeting time Nagisa texted him, knowing the 100% likelihood that he’ll be coming directly from his spectacular bathtub (best thing about his tiny apartment, no contest) in protest regardless of the subject of their meeting. And today’s is particularly…sensitive. Or certainly seems so to Rei, anyway. The lunch pre-show here at the sushi-bar will be nice at least, as he always treasures time they get to spend with Haruka, whether it’s his weekly swimming date with the writer or their movie/dinner nights where Nagisa insists their friend cook a recipe of Nagisa’s choosing at their condo (a different one each time). It’s fun and a little nostalgic and part of a campaign on both their parts that Nagisa privately calls Operation: Don’t Let Haru Go Serial-Killer.

They both worry and wonder over their friend’s isolation and solitude. Rei feels so deeply – and platonically – about this subject that he has no trouble talking about it with Nagisa, though he knows words can’t convey his feelings. Simply, he thinks Haruka is the loveliest, most ethical, most devoted, most talented creature he has ever known, and it pains him to think of all of his gifts going to waste. That is not to say he believes people must be romantically attached to have worth – far from it. He certainly felt like a complete person before meeting Nagisa…though, he admits, his world before-Nagisa (“B.N.”) was in black-and-white compared to the Day-Glo he has now. But it’s like the experience of going to a movie alone, or to dinner alone, or on a trip alone…it has its pleasures, sure, and the freedom is intoxicating, but to not share it with anyone? It’s only half an experience! And their solitary friend is living an entire life of these half-moments. It makes Rei’s heart ache and long to do _something._

Nagisa’s “something” is match-making. Rei shudders as he tries to push away the memories of those disastrous failures. Apparently, Haruka + blind-dates = absolute, total, Titanic-worthy catastrophe. It’s not due to any particular shortcomings on the part of the potential dates; all had been carefully handpicked (by Nagisa; Rei wanted no part of such a distasteful and embarrassing activity) from the encyclopedic depths of his contacts or contacts-of-contacts lists. Poets, a restaurant critic, a post-punk guitarist, an almost disturbingly-ripped personal trainer with pecs Rei found irritatingly distracting in their one double-date…there may have even been a veterinarian in there who Nagisa somewhat-desperately thought of because of Haruka’s Pied-Piper-like way with the cats at his old place in Iwatobi. Screaming failures, all. If they got through the whole first date, none lasted long after that.

It was a combination of factors, Rei muses, dunking his teabag and idly wondering at his train of thought but following just the same, his man apparently lingering in the Men’s and Haruka still nowhere to be found. Most obviously and challengingly, their friend is a terrible communicator. Epically, horribly _terrible._ Treats the phone like it’s an instrument of torture specifically designed to punish him; better with texts but replies are often days late; emailing cryptic single-sentence replies when at all. With “his” people like Nagisa and Rei, he’s relaxed and darkly funny, but still apt to answer in weird haiku-ish phrases when asked what he wants on his pizza. And with strangers, out in the world? That’s where Haruka’s _real_ troubles start.

Because it’s not even that he’s an introvert, Rei thinks, though he is certainly that. It’s that…he’s… _odd._ Completely and utterly unconcerned with how he comes across. Unafraid to share his thoughts and interests, no matter how random or outside the mainstream. Nagisa loves that about him and while Rei envies it – wishes he could borrow his friend’s freedom – he doesn’t think it does him any favors getting to know people.

And then there’s the physical attraction thing. Their friend can’t be asexual, not with the parade of smut he churns out for them. Sex is clearly an important part of Haruka’s life. Yet they have a little unsolved mystery between them about whether he’s even had sex or not (Nagisa insists where there’s smutty smoke there must be fire, however averse Haruka is to telling them about it, while Rei is sure he’s still a virgin). He is just such a lone-wolf type, Rei can’t pair him in his mind, with a random clubgoing stranger or school mate or, hell, anyone.

And it isn’t for a lack of attractive _ness._ Haruka is beautiful, the kind of guy who turns _straight_ guys’ heads when Nagisa dresses him up for one of their club nights. The kind of guy on fantasy-novel book jackets holding the magic sword aloft in the sparkly tunic, or maybe wearing the sparkly dress bent-back for a rough kiss by the rugged hero – his appeal is androgynous, even more than Nagisa’s petite warmth. Haruka is sort of the anti-Nagisa, all cool where Nagisa is warm, mysterious where his man is in-your-face. He’s had to hide his snicker despite his general distaste for the whole match-up process, watching when he sees the new guys lay eyes on Haruka for the first time, on his shining hair and glowing eyes and lithe figure, and gets a weird satisfaction from the double-takes, the once-overs (subtle and not), the sudden changes in the timbre of their voice. He supposes that reveals something unseemly about himself but he’s genuinely just happy to see other people appreciating his friend’s natural gifts.

But they’re dead-ends, all of them. Rei isn’t sure who’s doing the dumping (or in relationships as premature as these, the “extinguishing”), but he suspects Haru is letting the majority die. Just…not interested. Whether the attraction isn’t coming naturally from him, or they can’t follow his weird jokes about French Existentialism, or they can’t accept his water-thing, Rei doesn’t know. And that makes him sad.

So: today’s agenda has a sneaky hidden purpose that he doesn’t even know if Nagisa shares. Maybe what Haruka needs isn’t a _date_ , but a _push._ A challenger, someone tough who can work with him on the professional plane, and who can stand up against his weird and stubborn tendencies. A colleague. A partner…?

*

Haru pauses for a few beats just outside the glass storefront of the sushi bar, pulling on the strap of his messenger bag firmly in a familiar comfort. He draws a long breath in as far as he possibly can, then takes it five counts longer until he wonders if he might be in danger of floating away like Charlie and his uncle in the chocolate factory.

Okay. He can _do_ this. He likes Rei and Nagisa, hell, _loves_ them, and maybe more importantly, he trusts them. They’ve stuck with him when basically no one else has and put up with his assorted shit, and they see something in his writing, too. Enough to not only keep him on their roster all these years but also give him a weirdly free pass. He knows how much (or how little in this case) he makes them – he sees the checks and uses them to fund his tiny apartment, thrift-store trips, and handful of passions – and imagines that as “businessmen,” he’s basically an indulgence to them. Yet something was bad enough about his latest offering that got them all together to meet today.

More ominous yet, got them meeting with this … other guy. This “fixer”.

Haru doesn’t write with others. He doesn’t PLAY with others. Never has. T-ball game dissolved before starting when woefully ignorant substitute teacher put him in charge of picking teams (mistaking his stoicism for leadership), leaving behind weeping, beaming, and fistfighting kids after he went down the line and ruthlessly told each their particular T-ball potential, then skipped off the diamond to climb a tree. Biology group project slapped with an F when he snuck in after hours and broke all the frogs out before they could dissect – his partner never talked to him again after that. The folder he keeps that’s crammed full of the job listings his mom or dad (usually his dad) shoves at him with increasing desperation whenever they meet. Over the years Haru has noticed a drift, from the hopeful (stockbroker, legal assistant) to more, oh, _attainable –_ he thinks the last was fish-packing, probably his mom grasping at something, ANYTHING her weirdo son may resonate with. _Fish…yes, yes, he’s always liked fish._

Nagisa calls him a sick bastard for keeping them, but sometimes when the words are fighting with each other or him, he pulls out the folder and heaves a big sigh of relief, thinking _Well, could be worse…you could be doing THAT._

Haru heaves the same sigh and slips into the restaurant.

He doesn’t even have a chance to look for Rei and Nagisa when a bright blur sweeps up to him, cooing “Haruuu-chan!” He’s assaulted by a wave of fabulous fragrance (…lemongrass???) and immediately engulfed in Nagisa’s gigantic embrace, like he’s being welcomed home by his husband after three years on the International Space Station, never mind that their last time seeing each other was a bare week ago. Haru awkwardly stands and returns Nagisa’s mega-hug with one arm, patting his back and enjoying the inevitable stares they’ve attracted despite himself. Eventually, Nagisa pulls away, holding his upper arms as he searches his face for a moment (for what, he has no clue), and Haru can practically see his eyes shimmer.

Welcome complete, Nagisa grabs Haru’s hand and leads him to Rei at the bar. “Rei-chan, look who I found?” He tips Haru a wink.

“I don’t think the kitchen staff heard us come in. Let’s go let them know.” Haru makes to head for the kitchen and Nagisa yanks him back.

“Smart-ass. Just for that I’m telling them to refuse you any mackerel.” Nagisa smirks at the brief look of genuine panic that he feels on his face, then helps him off with his bag with a flourish.

He takes advantage of the little lull after that to peer at them. They’re dressed to the nines – in their own ways. Nagisa’s doing skinny jeans but has taken the trouble to wear a designer blazer cut provocatively short – as if to emphasize that no, _he’s_ not the serious one in this operation, but it’s still a suit-coat after all that. Rei on the other hand can wear a classic suit like no one, and the charcoal number he has on is clearly top of the line. Both say, _THIS IS IMPORTANT._ Haru, however, knows he looks like he wandered off the street to panhandle in comparison. Old-man cardigan he’s swimming in, t-shirt of his favorite surf-rock band (the one that wears Mexican wrestling masks when they play, and they…are…GREAT). Old painter paints, plaid Chuck Taylors. He has the big Buddy Holly glasses on today too; his vision is perfect, and he definitely doesn’t do it out of vanity: he just likes their familiar comforting weight on his face, especially for unfamiliar situations.

He smiles at his friends.

“So: you guys trying to get me a ghost-writer, or another date?”

***

Ugggggghhhh I have some weirdo disease that compels me to blather on (ESPECIALLY when the subject is my man Haru), leaving these poor characters floating in space and Thinking Deep Thoughts™. Apparently, I was absent when they taught show-don’t-tell in school :P. So I genuinely hope you all can follow and not get too bogged-down!

Tried finding a “Haru in Buddy Holly glasses” pic online and Google failed me (I hate you, Google) so please take one of Haru’s fave surf-rock bands instead, [Los Straightjackets](http://www.straitjackets.com/) (they are SO SO GOOD and 100x better live). He just struck me as a surf-rock guy so that’s one of his things :)

Next up: Haru and Sou meet cute (heh)


	3. You know you’re screwed when NAGISA’s uncomfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time has come that I NEVER expected, ever - FANART. To accompany something I created. (What???) ***Please, please see the end of the chap for a link to the completely-perfect HipsterHarus by the incomparable dominodamsel <3***
> 
> Also: Enter Sousuke. Or wait - maybe a la Metallica, like EEENTERR SOU-SUKEEEE!!! Exxxxxit LIIIIIGHT! etc etc.
> 
> I continue to be speechless over the comments the sweet folks here have left...which is a real bitch when replying, I tell ya! Thank you, thank you :)))

The meeting’s at a local coffee shop – not far from the sushi bar – in their cozy (and DISCREET) private room booked for the occasion. Rei wouldn’t leave him alone about why he was insisting on the non-work location when their offices had ample choice of comfortable, and professional, spots to meet. His Rei-chan had a special part of his brain exclusively dedicated to policing whether or not he was violating social protocol at any time, and Nagisa was genuinely sorry for him about that. He also understood – Haru was a client, having a first meeting with his new writing partner, and if that didn’t deserve professional treatment Nagisa didn’t know what did. But Haru was a friend, and Nagisa knew his friend wouldn’t just dive into this sort of arrangement lightly, and he figured anything he could do to make this encounter less-threatening wouldn’t be wasted effort.

So: the coffee shop.

Their backroom rental is swank enough to include a little table-service from one of the baristas, so they don’t even have to waste time ordering at the counter. They push through the front doors.

“Ohhh, Haru, you are gonna love the mochi here. Can you believe they actually pound it themselves? Plus, I think they have like ten flavors, too.” He has an arm looped through Haru’s like his date, as he shines up at him with all he’s got. Rei follows along behind, and he knows his man doesn’t mind his obnoxious borderline-flirtation today – it’s not far-off his usual, and hell, it’s for the cause! Haru gazes down at him with an unreadable expression before looking off thoughtfully.

“You know, the perfect mochi will have the perfect balance between viscosity and elasticity so that it is not inextensible and fragile but rather extensible yet firm.”

Nagisa blinks; he hears Rei stifle a laugh behind them. “Um…OK, Haru. I…didn’t know mochi were so sexy. ‘Cause that’s, uh, sexy as hell?” It’s seeing the determined way Haru’s still gazing off that Nagisa gets he was being had all along. Damn him. Damn him and his weirdo weird weirdness….

Rei heads to the counter to check in and get their order squared-away while Nagisa gently-yet-firmly guides Haru around the counter and down a little hallway, sliding the door open at the end. The room behind is calm and comfortable, low indirect lights in the corners, big Japanese-style table in the middle. There’s a man – big, dangerous, darkly handsome, cartoonishly-looming yet quietly professional in a top-of-the-line suit and open shirt, no tie – folded hulkingly on the far side with a pot of tea. He glances up from the sleek laptop in front of him.

“Sousuke-san!” Nagisa sweeps over to his side of the table, guiding Haru along like they’re at a dance but he refuses to play the man. He drops Haru once they get there, reaching out instead to grasp one of the other writer’s hands in both of his and give it a tight squeeze. The big man smiles – the littlest curve of his lips and crinkle of the sides of his eyes – and squeezes back with a near-bone-crushing grip before they release each other. “We are SO glad you could do this today!”

“Hazuki-san.” Then he shifts his attention to Haru and his face becomes distant, and calculating, like he’s trying his hardest to work something out while still stay in the conversation.

Nagisa looks back to his friend…who to his disquiet is wearing The Haruquin. Absolute, utter lack of expression. No signs of intelligent life on THIS planet. And the trickiest thing about The Haruquin is that Haru’s look with the least outward anything means possibly the MOST activity is going on inside. Nagisa thinks it’s a basic Haru defense mechanism, and that it probably doesn’t bode well for this meeting. Haru thinking this hard rarely ends well. Damage-control time.

“…Yamazaki Sousuke-san, may I present my friend and colleague Nanase Haruka-san.”

Sousuke stays seated, looking up at them from his cushion like something out of the Arabian Nights, then holds a big hand out. Haru reaches out and takes it without hesitation, his slender hand disappearing into Sousuke’s paw – but whether Haru resists or Sousuke gets distracted, they don’t shake for what must only be a few seconds but feels like a LONG time, holding each other’s outstretched hand and just staring at each other. Finally, Sousuke gives Haru a few firm pumps before releasing him and Nagisa could kiss him for it.

“Nanase-san. So, I’ve been reading your work. We have a big challenge ahead of us and should probably not waste time.” Haru blinks down at him with deadly calm and Nagisa retracts his unspoken offer to kiss Sousuke.

“…ahhhh! Gentlemen, gentlemen, all business, what’s that all about? No, that’ll never do.” He puts an arm around Haru and aggressively squeezes, then is ridiculously happy to see Rei-chan appear in the door. He instantly transfers his future-kiss to his man and his incredible powers of distraction, then makes good on his offer when Rei comes up to greet them. Rei pulls back from the unexpected kiss with an instant blush that makes his violet eyes glimmer. Honestly….his man is the goddamn cutest in the world, if not solar system.

Rei gravely nods down at Sousuke, and their handshake is a thing of beauty. It should be taught in business schools. “Yamazaki-san! I trust you’re well this afternoon?”

He shifts and crosses his arms across his barrel chest. “I WILL be, when we can figure out how to save Nanase’s writing. I understand why you called me in on this and I admit – I did have several other potential jobs in the wings but this one needed me most.”

“– NEEDED you, hmm?” Haru’s moved forward before Nagisa even knows he isn’t under his arm anymore, standing right up next to Sousuke so close that one more step puts him in the bigger man’s lap. Both have identical crossed-arm stances and stony expressions. “So you had other potential jobs lined up? Tell me, what were those jobs? Puppy-kicker? World War II reenactor? Dildo-tester?”

 _Oh…no. No, no, no._ Sousuke’s opening his mouth, murder in his eyes. But Rei’s beating him to it.

“TEA! Tea…and some light refreshment, very agreeable at this time of day when the blood sugar’s the lowest! I’m sure we could all use it, and perhaps that could get us all off on a better foot and start this conversation properly.” He pleads wordlessly at Haru – who thankfully appears to stand-down, he’s always had a weird vulnerability to his man’s charms – and smiles appeasingly at Sousuke. In another stroke of crazy-good luck a lanky kid appears in the door pushing a little trolley, bowing excessively all the while as he unloads it to the table. Nagisa can’t blame him – he can almost taste the tension in the air like ozone after a lightning strike. He wishes he was going along when the kid bows his way out the door.

Instead, he grabs Haru in an iron grip and seats them on the other side of the table from Sousuke. If he could, he would put some bulletproof glass between them. He wonders as his stomach begins plummeting if he or Rei is most to blame for this certain disaster. His money is on Rei (who’s settling down next to him).

Sousuke appears totally unfazed to be sitting alone, tenting his fingers and staring at Haru with laser-beam intensity. Staring being one of Haru’s favorite strategies, he returns the look for a long several minutes, the atmosphere so thick in the room neither of the meeting’s ostensible hosts feel able to break it. Haru finally does.

“Rei. Nagisa. Would you please explain to us what in God’s name you had in mind for us to do together? Because early-indications seem to show that there have never been two people ever conceived in the whole of Japan who are LESS compatible with each other. And that can’t be good for any kind of collaborative…well…anything, really.” He looks very matter-of-factly over to them, then turns the same look to Sousuke. Who is suddenly, unexpectedly, shaking with laughter, dabbing the corners of his eyes in a shameless way Nagisa approves of.

“Yes, Hazuki, Ryuugazaki,” he says when he’s calmed down. “Please, let us know what you were thinking of. Clearly we need to figure out the terms of this arrangement. I value my life and my various body parts and if you’re wanting us to spend time together, _alone,_ I may need to petition for a self-defense firearm.”

Nagisa’s giggling despite himself, ignoring the death-glare from his right. He KNOWS they’ve turned a corner on the whole tension thing and is so relieved he leans forward and piles a plate to capacity with treats, eating in temporary bliss. Rei leaps in to pour cups of tea for them and refreshes Sousuke’s cup, and the gently wafting fragrant steam seems to relax the mood further. He rubs Rei’s thigh comfortingly under the table – _not a disaster, not a disaster._

“Okay,” Nagisa says after swallowing his giant bite of Napoleon. “Now, Rei-chan, please stop me when you need to. Well, we … we truly love you, Haru-” He catches himself before he can add his reflexive “-chan” to save his friend some dignity. Haru’s eyes soften. “We love what you do, too. Especially Rei-chan – sometimes I think if he could marry your damn writing, he’d be looking into divorce.”

“Oh stop it,” Rei protests.

“But –” Now he gets to the hard part, and falters before going on. “You write alone, and…it sorta shows.”

Haru frowns. “Of course I write alone. I live alone. I eat alone. I take baths alone. I swim alone, when I’m not with Rei. Why the fuck should my writing be any different?”

Rei looks up sharply at Sousuke when Haru swears, gauging his reaction (that _violating social protocol_ part of his brain again), but the big man appears unfazed, and is rather leaning forward on his elbows in his first clearly non-hostile display of interest yet. Nagisa looks pointedly at Rei for help.

“Well, Haruka-senpei –” Apparently he’s not the only one struggling with honorifics today. “Nagisa is sort of right. Your writing is simply _beautiful._ I don’t have words for how beautiful. But…but your writing deserves a little help to be shown in the way it deserves, the way the most people can be exposed to and enjoy it. It’s like – do you know diamonds, how they’re just rocks, and no one can see how beautiful they are…and even when they’ve been polished and cut, people just can’t appreciate them, because how in the world can you walk around with a loose diamond? But then someone puts the diamond in a setting, and people can wear it on a ring or necklace, and suddenly that beautiful thing is totally accessible to all.” He stops, finally, and Nagisa can see how proud he is of his metaphor by the shine in his eyes.

Haru’s turned his death-stare at Rei now. “You did NOT just use a crappy diamond-in-the-rough analogy on me.”

Rei is undeterred. Nagisa knows this is ultimately his baby, his brainchild (whereas all the blind dates have been his…and Lord knows how well THOSE have gone), and he also knows steamrollers could have a tough time against Rei when he’s really motivated.

“Yes, I did, Haruka-senpai. Your lovely creations are dying, withering because they _aren’t being seen,_ because they are unfortunately too outside the mainstream for the mainstream –“

“Fuck the mainstream!” Haru’s livid now, eyes stabbing holes into Rei and leaning over Nagisa to poke at him with a finger. Sousuke watches attentively.

“…well, that may be a very valid feeling, Haruka, and you may not care about or need the money, either, but it remains that you’re hiding your light under a bushel. Why?? It doesn’t make sense, not with your talent. And can you honestly say you’re happy, bouncing ideas off your own skull, just having yourself to share your success with? Is that fair to yourself??” He stops suddenly, breathing quickly, seeming embarrassed. Haru stares back with a deep crease between his brows and a fixed frown. He sighs, finally, taking off the Buddy Holly glasses and putting them on the table, rubbing his eyes. Tea cools forgotten around the table in the emotional silence.

“So….Yamazaki. What’s your role in all this? What special mojo do you have that’s gonna help me with my pathetic-loner-writing problem? It has to be pretty good considering what these guys must be paying for you.”

Sousuke snorts loudly. “Well, we actually haven’t talked the terms of my contract, but yeah – I expect it’ll be ample.”

Rei snorts this time. Money-man.

“…But I’m actually a little surprised you’ve never heard of my books. I’m on a bunch of lists. ‘Top-Ten Most Up-and-Coming Japan’? ‘100 Hottest Hot-Things’? No…? Specialty shops now but Hazuki and Ryuugazaki are sure airport newsstands and best-seller lists are around the corner.”

Haru stares at him so blankly Nagisa could almost laugh. “Oh, I don’t think I’m capable of being in touch. They just finished telling you I need to be told which end of the chopsticks is up. It’s amazing I remember how to breathe, to quote Bob Dylan.”

“ _Sarcastic_ little thing, isn’t he?” Sousuke asks Rei and Nagisa incredulously, shaking his head. “Well, Nanase, I will say two things to you. First, all that negativity really isn’t doing you any favors. We’ll have to figure out some way around that. Second, I write romance novels, and Ryuugazaki thought that a collaboration on a romance novel might be a great way to get your stuff out to a bigger audience.”

“…Romance novels.”

“Yessss, that IS what I said.”

“Bodice-ripping, eyelash-fluttering, slick-channel-quivering romance-novels.”

“Um, NO. I think there may be a little misunderstanding here. Look – here’s the cover of my latest…” Sousuke dials around on his laptop for a few seconds then turns the screen to the other side of the table.

Nagisa’s quite fond of this one. It’s the windblown surface of some desolate planet; the sky glows with stars, and three suns shine in the sky. But the viewer’s attention is immediately drawn by the couple in the foreground, the extremely hot and buff and _male_ couple pressed up against some kind of land-speeder, tearing each other’s skimpy space suits off, hands all over straining chests and bulging crotches, and sucking each other’s faces like their lives depended on it. (Maybe they _do,_ given the lack of portable oxygen anywhere in the image.) Pretty hot, actually. He’s thinking Haru won’t be able to deny the artistic merits of the thing, at least.

And that’s not even getting into the title: _Probed._

Haru blinks. He studies the image for an excessive amount of time and then looks back up at Sousuke.

“You write gay romance novels.”

“I do. It’s actually a surprisingly small market. We’re all such perverts, so horny all the time, but want romance too, so I really don’t know why. Whatever, that’s what I do, and your buddies here thought you could be good at doing it too if we did it together.”

“Do you do this a lot? Uh, ‘rent’ yourself out to the highest bidder or saddest case? That whole comment about other jobs? ‘Cause that is just a goddamn sad life right there.”

“That was a lie.” Nagisa and Rei are shamelessly eyeballing the exchange at this point like they somehow snagged front-row tickets to Wimbeldon.

“…You don’t do this a lot? Oh, that’s encouraging.”

“I don’t _ever_ do it. I’ve never written with anyone before.”

They blink at each other. Haru sighs. Sousuke takes a sip of his stone-cold tea but keeps his eyes fixed on Haru. “Well, a relationship built on trust. This is great,” Haru says. “When do we start this fucking thing?”

***

MOST IMPORTANTLY: I can’t express enough how blown-away I am by the total perfection of [dominodamsel’s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dominodamsel/pseuds/dominodamsel) [total-embodiment-fanart](http://dominodamsel.tumblr.com/image/102639063577) of HipsterHaru in his perfectly-depicted hipster duds. Just…just…WOW. Thank you <333

Also: quoted the Wiki entry on [mochi](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mochi) verbatim for Haru’s random comment on same ;)

Next up: our dynamic duo eases into their new (working) relationship, with typically awkward results ;)


	4. Stuck in the middle with you

The smell of chlorine hangs in the air as Haru and Rei undress in the locker room, and Haru breathes deep, savoring it. Smells like home. He’s glad Rei asked him to meet for a swimming date, to smooth some of the let’s-skip-rough-and-go-right-to-sawtooth edges hovering around after the coffee shop meeting. That was really, most-emphatically NOT routine and Haru isn’t at all sure how he feels about any of it, and his go-to at times like that is always the comfort of the familiar. It’ll be nice to drown themselves in their laps and see how the water feels about them today.

It’s sort of odd that they’re alone in the Men’s; usually at this time of day they’re joined by at least a handful of fellow fitness nuts on their lunch breaks. It’s just him and Rei, though. It’s gloomy in here, too, with a block of the fluorescents out in the next set of lockers over, occasionally popping on, and making their section feel uncomfortably bright by comparison. Haru grabs his shirt by the collar and pulls it off, then smirks over at Rei.

“Dang, this lighting is ridiculous. You’d think we were in some low-rent porno.” He chuckles his low laugh.

Rei pauses in the act of wrapping a towel around his waist, and fixes him with those pale ( _uncanny)_ violet eyes of his, his expression unreadable. Haru’s laugh dies away. “What…?” he finally relents. “Lipstick on my teeth?”

No, Rei isn’t biting on that, either. His eyes don’t waver a millimeter from Haru’s as he slowly pulls off his glasses, tilting his head, considering.

 _Wait… when did Rei take his shirt off? Is my memory that bad?_ His friend – his _shirtless, towel-wearing_ friend – solemnly, seriously paces up to him where he stands gaping, and stops close. TOO close. Haru’s suddenly making eye-contact with Rei’s pecs and is weirdly impressed by their soft curves, swelling so subtly from the flat planes of Rei’s alabaster chest like Michelangelo carved them, becoming the gentle undulation of his firm abs and finally the sudden angles of his hipbones above the little white towel –

- _did I just check out one of my oldest friends?_

Haru snaps his gaze back up. Rei is nibbling on one bow of his glasses, wearing a look like he’s chewing over the theory of relativity, and Haru is struck suddenly by just how much Rei looks like him. He could be a brother. A younger brother shifting to stand over him now, coolly determined, snaking hands to the waistband of his jeans and popping the button.

“We need to take inventory, Haruka. Be sure what you have is good enough for us.” He’s never heard Rei’s voice so dark.

“I don’t –” A hand appears in his elbow and yanks him away from Rei, and he stumbles and catches himself, finding himself in Nagisa’s arms. Nagisa, in an Iwatobi swim club coaching track suit, a stopwatch around his neck, supremely harried. “Nagisa…?”

“You are SO late. What the hell are you guys doing?? They can’t wait for you forever, you know.” He sighs and grabs Haru’s hand, hustling them out of the locker room and into the hallway to the pool, leaving Rei somewhere behind. It’s dark in the hallway and Haru is seized with a sudden fear, which only ramps up when they pause at the pool door and Nagisa yanks his pants down with businesslike efficiency. He isn’t wearing jammers underneath.

The door is open and the room beyond is bright, _blinding_ bright. Nagisa’s gone and no one’s pushing him forward but he takes a hesitating step inside anyway. He can’t see a damn thing and the sudden light change feels so violent he shields his face with his hands. He feels no need to do the same to the rest of him.

He lowers his hands and blinks around the police interrogation room, pure, classic yakuza drama material. It’s claustrophobically small and not bright at all – just unevenly lit, a cone light directed down at a pair of aluminum chairs facing each other in the middle of the room. Smoke drifts in the light. Two dark figures lean against the walls outside the narrow cone of light, watching and smoking. A third turns and steps into the light, resting his hands on the back of the further chair and peering forward at Haru. Big, muscled like a tank, rumpled white dress shirt pushed up his firm arms and tie raked down from his prominent Adam’s apple. A shoulder holster wraps around and hangs discreetly at his side.

Yamazaki. Who snaps one finger down at the facing chair and says, curtly, “Sit.”

The aluminum is chilled against his ass and thighs and he hisses. This earns a slow curling of Yamazaki’s lips. One of the other cops laughs from the dark. “Sounds like he’s cold, Chief.”

Yamazaki leans deeply back, crossing his arms behind his head, letting his legs splay in the chair. Relaxed…or putting on a great show of it. “That won’t be a problem for long. Not if he does what he’s supposed to.”

Haru clears his throat. “…I’m guessing this isn’t a spelling bee.”

There’s a chorus of “oooo” and another harsh round of laughter from the shadows, and Yamazaki looks suddenly, darkly pissed and stands, twirling the chair like it weighs nothing, straddles it. REALLY close to Haru, who just looks back at him blandly.

 _Turquoise_ eyes. Yamazaki has sea-colored eyes ( _who the hell has TURQUOISE eyes?)_ and their paleness is aggressively unfriendly. But he can’t stop looking. Sorta falling in. Refusing to look away…or even blink.

“OK, smartass.” He lays that giant hand on Haru’s thigh, right above the knee. “Here’s what’s gonna go down. You’re gonna show us what you can do with that cock of yours –” Squeezes, tightly, right up to the point of pain; Haru stays still. “-And we’re gonna see if it’s good enough to get you out.”

Haru’s up from the chair before Yamazaki’s done with his little speech. Part of him is flat-out furious, _oh, you want a show, huh? FINE._ Part of him is just eager to get as up in this guy’s face as this guy seems to enjoy being in his and, yeah, prove it’s good enough, prove HE’S good enough, right here, NOW.

He’s grabbing Yamazaki by the loose tie around his neck and yanking him out of the chair; the shadow-cops make alarmed noises and come forward, but the big chief seems amused, waving them off as he lets Haru push him back the right-way on the chair like a giant doll. Haru’s straddling his lap as soon as he’s down, the cheap fabric of his dress pants rough on the back of his thighs as he slides in flush with Yamazaki, wrapping his long legs around the back of the chair. He leans back and grabs his cock, thrilling at the surprise knocking the cop’s mouth open, and works his other hand around to scratch in the hair at Sousuke’s nape.

There’s no appetizer, no preliminaries – he’s hard, at once, suddenly chasing himself desperately for release at a clip past vigorous and into violent. His hand encounters no friction – he could be underwater. He’s rocked back almost flat across Sousuke’s thighs, anchored firmly by his legs and vice-grip on the big man’s neck, but from the hips up he’s in nervous motion, torso twitching as he closes in, head reaching away. He’s never heard the sounds he’s made before, and he can’t help himself.

And he hears, from above him – “ah, ah, godDAMN Haruka, the fuck are you trying to DO?” – and in the blackness of closed eyes he feels hands seize his hips –

*

“…ugh. GOD.”

Haru feels gross. No, he IS gross. Disgusting, even. No judging, just observing. People rolling around nude in generous portions of bodily fluids in their own beds totally fit that bill. He’s a fucking biohazard. He’s basically a teenage boy. He should be embarrassed, probably. But he just feels wet, and wide-awake at – he rolls and squints – 5AM, and undeniably turned on, ready to give himself another go. And that’s despite (because of??) the dream’s weird and even unsettling events. Dream-Sousuke – YAMAZAKI – was right; what the fuck was he doing?

He peels himself from the sheets with a little “yecch” and shuffles into the bathroom, the place that makes things right nine times out of 10 in Haru’s life. This morning is a very utilitarian shower only and a return to his bedroom to swap out his sheets, then pulling on tattered old sweats and a boxy flannel shirt against the chill in the apartment. He gets a new towel and wraps a turban around his head – if being cold is obnoxious, sitting around with wet hair in the cold is totally irritating – and finally pulls his laptop from his bookcase. He scoots back on the bed and stacks his legs on a pile of pillows, then powers his machine up.

5:30. So it’s 3:30 in the afternoon in New York. A decent time to catch him, as he games after classes or maybe crams in the library (hahaha….oh, who’s he kidding?).

He checks tumblr first, fingers heading there reflexively, dialing down to _kiss-me-sugar-me_ (beside an icon of Gamara the incredible radioactive turtle). Yep, Kisumi’s account was last active “3 minutes ago”. His latest post is a big helpful how-to – plus diagrams – on auto-fellatio. Haru gives it a quick once-over. He has to turn his laptop 90 degrees at one point.

Haru pulls Skype up and opens a new IM session with – again – _kiss-me-sugar-me_.

It’s almost suspicious how fast Kisumi answers. He doesn’t even let Haru start their conversation.

 **kiss-me-sugar-me:** heyyyyy handsome!! What’s going on on a WEDNESDAY huh? Weird for you. Puls it’s like, what, 6am there? Did something happen??

 **tidalpool-deep:** sortof. Is this a good time for….?

He can practically sense Kisumi leaning into his screen from the other side. Usually the younger man’s the one who has to initiate their odd booty calls. Bang-on – Kisumi’s reply flies back in record time.

 **kiss-me-sugar-me:** um, YEAH, duh@!! Lemme just shut the door. We lucked out, roomate’s got a football meeting.

Haru’s snorting despite himself at the ridiculously-clichéd image. He fires off a reply, barely aware of the fond smile on his face.

 **tidalpool-deep:** HA. Football, huh? Norman Rockwell would be so proud :P

The cursor flashes serenely for a few moments – fewer than he would think it would take to cross a room twice, however small his “Internet pen pal’s” apartment might be. Haru reaches his legs towards the ceiling as far as he can then takes it a few centimeters further, relishing in the stretch.

 **kiss-me-sugar-me:** hey! You making fun? Plus how the fuck do you know about Norman Rockwell anyway? Aren’t you Japanese people like all closed off from the world and shit?

Haru’s scoffing at the screen. He feels better already, the lingering weirdness clinging to him since swimming up from the dream dissipating a little.

 **tidalpool-deep:** internet, genius. Books. Ever heard of em? Plus, you’re Japanese. We’re sorta writing in Japanese. We gotta get you back to the motherland away from all those gaijin.

 **kiss-me-sugar-me:** you can have me anytime yuou wanna come get me, beautiful. How many times do i have to say it before you believe me?

Haru just sits for a minute, staring. His cursor looks like it’s laughing at him this time, even if this is a little exchange he’s had with the college student probably a thousand times. But who’s counting? Today it hurts. He can’t say why, but the fact that he’s on the other side of the planet, it’s not just a lame cliché, he REALLY IS on the other side of the fucking planet from literally the only other human who wants to touch him and may even ache for him when they aren’t together…..even if they AREN’T together, not at all, not the way anyone would understand… Well, that just plain sucks. Haru doesn’t give a shit about most things, he’s proud of this philosophy and the quirky way it harmonizes with his homeland’s key value of Zen. But right now, as he wishes the dawn wasn’t intruding through his window sheers, he’s feeling too much. And he HATES it.

He snatches his headset from the teetering stack of books beside his bed. This time he’s the one who breaks all land-speed records in his reply, attacking the keys like they did something to him personally, not caring if he comes across too-eager – or too angry – to Kisumi.

 **tidalpool-deep:** we doing this or not?? And I want video this time.

The other man’s reply is uncharacteristically slow to arrive.

 **kiss-me-sugar-me:** …….Haru, are you sure? That was one of your biggest rules from the beginning – I think that was your ONLY rule. I don’t know what you look like, you don’t know what I look like. You sure? Cause youcan’t ever go back and unsee me, you dig? XDDD

And again. **kiss-me-sugar-me:** honey, are you SURE you’re ok?

He’s already moving the laptop to his shins and clicking over to the call function, checking the camera radio button for the first time. He clicks Kisumi and as he waits, loses the turban and undoes the buttons of his oversized flannel shirt, his two concessions to appearance. Kisumi answers quickly.

“…oh my god.”

Haru rolls his head back on his pillows and bursts into a shuffle of laughter despite himself. It’s probably how he’d react to meeting himself, too. He pulls himself up and lays eyes on the video window for the first time.

“It’s really good to see you, too, dear.” And he means it. Shigino Kisumi is beautiful. Like, ridiculously, stupidly beautiful. It helps that he’s blessed with the dumb-luck fact of being 21 years old, which usually doesn’t hurt. Haru also knows he’s an avid basketball player and can tell from the little image why that might be – for an Asian, Kisumi looks _tall,_ big-featured, broad-shouldered, long arms barely able to fit into the rectangle on his screen. Broad shoulders and long limbs in a close-fitting long-sleeved black tee, somehow managing to perfectly reveal his impressive musculature while showing nothing at all.

But it’s his face that kills Haru. It’s this weird, perfectly-balanced angular-yet-soft, so soft, gently arched brows and almond-shaped (…violet, like Rei’s???) squinting eyes and a gracefully tapering nose and a softly smiling set of lips, all crowned by the best hair Haru’s ever seen – wild, exploding in artful curls, _pink._ This guy is a little punk and his own little-punk heart aches anew.

And Haru remembers why he insisted on the stupid no-video rule in the first place. Sorta like hookers refusing to kiss. No images, that much harder to care about each other as REAL people and not abstract concepts, sources of secret amusement, sexual release, bouncing ideas back and forth, offloading of all kinds of little details about their lives and about nothing at all. With the faces, the necks, collarbones and bits of chest peeking out, expanses of shoulders, they’re suddenly REAL PEOPLE, and this whole thing is suddenly REAL.

It’s so hard to judge for sure through the imperfections of the image but somehow he thinks Kisumi may be as enchanted as he is. He’s even holding his fingers against his lips as his eyes dance, drinking Haru in.

“You fucking LIAR! You holdout! You never said anything about being goddamn gorgeous! What the fuck, Haru?”

“Um, yeah. With the bedhead and designer-undereye-baggage. Yeeeah.” He quirks up one side of his mouth, the almost-completely foreign sensation of self-consciousness sweeping through him. “You know, you aren’t too bad yourself.” His voice is softer than he intends.

“That’s what I hear.” Kisumi poses in a three-quarter heroic-pose, Marvel-Superhero-worthy, hands on his hips and looking off into some shining distance. Haru laughs again. It feels good.

“I’ll bet. Who could resist THAT if you came calling?”

Kisumi drops the pose, then is suddenly pulling his shirt off over his wireless headset in a flurry of movement. “I don’t, you know. I flirt SO BAD, oh my god Haru did I ever tell you I got ‘Biggest Flirt’ for high-school senior yearbook?”

“Shocker.”

“Right?” Kisumi is rarely offended, by comments directed at him or otherwise. It’s one of his better qualities. “So, I sorta can’t turn that off, you know. And sure, my flirting is pretty physical, okay. But I don’t do anything _real_ with anyone but you.” Haru can’t decide if Kisumi is more beautiful with the black shirt on or off, but this newly-shirtless Kisumi is beyond ridiculous in his Greek-god-ness. And he’s reaching fingers forward – and stroking them carefully over the lens of his camera, so as to avoid completely blocking himself from Haru.

Who is simultaneously thrilled and a little sickened by the boy’s soft words and gesture. He can’t speak for a minute or two, but Kisumi looks unconcerned, watching him with the same gentle look and extended hand. It makes him feel better and worse at the same time.

“….Kisumi. Don’t say that. Come on, you have to be out there screwing around. – SAFELY,” he amends quickly. “This is your time! You can’t let yourself go to waste like this.”

“I’m not going to waste, Haru, baby. Not when I know I have you. Not when I know you’re YOU, when you’re, like, a thousand times more beautiful than my dreams. And I have a good imagination, man. I mean, I know you’re, like, the ‘artist’ and everything.” He makes the air quotes with a big grin on his face and it’s so wide and shining Haru can’t help a tiny smile back. “But trust me, reality beat the SHIT out of fantasy today.”

Haru knows it’s wrong. He knows the “right” thing is to apologize and call this thing off, this weird new video experiment, maybe their whole thing now that they’ve jumped over the line he said he wouldn’t. He’s the goddamn grown-up, here.

Instead, he leans into the pillows and eases his sweats down without announcement or warning. Through the odd events of this morning he’s been haunted by arousal and his dick is already semi-hard. He can’t be sure Kisumi will be able to see him but just has a feeling, which is confirmed when Kisumi yells – flat-out yells – in his ears.

“HARUUU! God, you damn minx! God, let a guy catch up, will ya??” Haru smirks seeing Kisumi’s brief struggle: stare wide-eyed at the sight of his naked torso and flushed cock, or reciprocate? Haru’s “senpai-status” holds out here, as Kisumi seems to shake himself before quickly repositioning the laptop, then sliding his own track pants down. Interesting. And he has apparently had a stimulating afternoon before Haru called – or maybe their call has been enough? – his cock even harder than Haru’s, thick, red, and _big._ Haru swallows heavily. It takes him a few tries to actually get words out.

“…So. While…while we usually talk each other through, this is obviously, uh, different today. So why don’t we both just watch this time?”

Kisumi looks as affected as he. Just the fact the motormouthy guy has nothing to say back indicates the degree of his arousal. So they get comfortable, Haru against the softness of his comforter and Kisumi ramrod-straight in what looks like his computer-chair. Haru’s quiet, almost silent, which is nothing unusual for him; in contrast Kisumi likes to make the most-peculiar little huff – almost a whimper – with every stroke, almost as if he causes himself pain. Haru finds himself not missing the words – Kisumi uses way too many, to the point they almost get in his way, so the silence is novel and welcome.

And the visual adds a whole new dimension to their usual experience. He feels like he’s watching _The Wizard of Oz_ and Dorothy just walked into Technicolor Oz. It’s the chance to see how _different_ Kisumi is – how he never stops moving, working his generous length with his right hand with an almost jittery stroke, his left hand restlessly traveling his pecs, his abs. Haru in contrast _flows,_ pulling himself out and releasing, starting from the shoulders and pouring down from his abs and hips before shifting back and going again. Their styles niggle the back of his mind incessantly, the waves of pleasure building and receding and creating a fog in his brain he has to fight through, before he gets it.

He barks laughter into his headset, not slowing his movements. “I just figured out how we both jack off.”

Kisumi’s worse-off than he is, gasping his words out helplessly. “…the fuck, Ha…Haru…what ha-happened to NO TALKING?”

Haru ignores him, increasing his motions. “I do it like a swimmer, and you do it like a b-baller. You….you fucking dribble!”

Kisumi’s suddenly growling and arcing back in the chair, his shamelessly-exposed body taut, hand fluttering at his crotch. “Aaaarrrrgh DAMMIT, ahhh Harrrru!” And Haru’s treated to his first real-time, free, personally-delivered money-shot. It’s ridiculously productive, and _long,_ and the image is so blatantly erotic Haru’s own orgasm is ripped unexpectedly out of him as he arcs back in much the same way as Kisumi had.

The waves of pleasure crash through him and overwhelm him, and when he comes back to himself he’s panting rapidly, flannel shirt off one shoulder, pecs sprinkled in cum, whole body simultaneously floating away and sinking deep into his bed. He quickly wipes his hand and chest with his shirt and catches Kisumi drinking him in, the look on his catlike face both satisfied and hungry, a Cheshire smile on his face. Haru hates himself for the cliché reference almost as much as for where he’s let things go.

“Two questions. Why, oh WHY don’t we smoke, so we could have one after that, and WHY didn’t we do this before???” Kisumi stretches like a cat too, a big, African cat, his turgid dick lolling from one side to the other before he settles. Haru feels himself stirring _yet again_ at the sight. Which is when he knows he has to shut this new thing down.

He nonchalantly pulls his sweats back up, noting and heartlessly dismissing the unmistakable disappointment that drapes across Kisumi’s face. The ugly old shirt is next – it’s in pretty rough shape after their activities so he just pulls it closed. He sits cross-legged on the bed and looks down at his fingers as they mindlessly trace the pattern on his comforter.

“I’m going to be working with someone on a new project.”

Kisumi laughs genuinely before he gathers that Haru isn’t kidding. “Haru, YOU don’t work with anybody. You don’t HAVE to work with anybody! Who the hell is telling you you have to do that? Is it your agents at the publisher? Aren’t they supposed to be your friends?” Haru feels a stab at Kisumi’s passionate and innocent chivalry on his behalf. He glances up at the younger man’s concerned face.

“No….it’s good. I need this. We had a meeting yesterday, and – and he seems okay. Kinda forceful. But...but maybe that’ll be good for me.”

Kisumi just stares at him for a second. “Bullshit! No, Haruka Nanase does what the fuck he wants when the fuck he wants to. He doesn’t need anybody ‘helping’ him be more commercial or whatever!” He air-quotes angrily, leaning into the screen and filling the rectangle with his agitation. “What are you guys gonna do anyway? A fucking romance novel?”

Haru bursts out laughing despite himself, which seems to piss Kisumi off further, so he waves his hands quickly. “No, I’m not laughing at you. That’s just so funny – that’s what this guy does, so we WILL in fact be doing a romance novel. A GAY romance novel. It’s so campy I may have to bring a sleeping bag.”

“What…what does this guy look like?” His voice is low, offhand, but there’s a glitter to his eyes that concerns Haru.

“Eh. Real alpha-male type. Big. Nice suit. Looks like he spends half his time doing P90X at the gym, and the other half dictating while he simultaneously gets a mani, a pedi, and his asshole bleached. I am NOT used to his level of grooming, that’s for sure.”

“I’m worried about you, Haru.” Kisumi’s so close to his webcam, any closer and he’d be out of focus entirely. His voice is a plea. Haru feels himself incrementally freezing. “A guy like this, he’s gonna eat you for breakfast. In every way! You’re gonna be catnip to him. But he’s just gonna suck you in and spit you out. You’re just gonna be another notch in the bedpost to this guy, you hear me?”

Haru scoffs. “Oh my god. Okay, DAD. Or Mom. Got it!”

Kisumi recoils, his face a picture of hurt. “So cold, Haru! Don’t make fun of me! I care about you and I don’t want this asshole hurting you, okay?”

Haru looks away, ashamed though he thinks he hides it well. He suddenly realizes it’s too late: he can’t shut this down today, not like this, not this mean. Not to Kisumi. He’s lost.

He looks back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Kisumi. And don’t worry, I’m not screwing this guy – I’m just working with him –”

“Ha! Same thing,” Kisumi interrupts. Haru gives the tiniest smile.

“- but you don’t have to worry about me. There is literally NOTHING to worry about. Okay?”

Kisumi does his thing again – reaching out to Haru, touching his screen via his own webcam. He huffs an uncharacteristically frustrated sigh. “I just wish I could touch you _so much._ For real. You know?”

Haru shifts forward to disconnect but can’t stop his face softening as he does. “I’ll talk to you later, Kisumi. Have a good night.” He focuses on his hands as he exits Skype and yanks the headset off almost superstitiously, like the other man somehow has the power to reply through a closed connection. Then he just stares at his screen for unknown minutes, at his own painting on the desktop, the blues and blacks and reds and yellows of the harbor at night that never fail to relax him. This morning, it provides him no comfort at all.

He flinches from the laptop and stalks in the direction of the bathtub.

***

Oops – no work from Haru and Sou in THIS chapter! (Not in a traditional sense, anyway.) Kisumi was also completely unplanned; suddenly, there he was. But I totally believe someone like Haru would make tumblr buddies (and more) with someone like Kisumi. Shame about the distance. We’ll have to see what happens… ;)


	5. Everybody’s workin’ for the weekend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments on this thing are the best payment ever. THank you all SO much - I love hearing your thoughts, please keep 'em coming <3

After the initial, bizarre jolts of their first meeting on Tuesday had smoothed themselves a bit – when their whose-dick-is-bigger contest was over (a fight that Haru is pretty sure he’d lose, if going up against Yamazaki) and they were sorta talking like adults – there was very little left for Rei and Nagisa to lay out for them. They demanded no fixed deadlines, stylistic guidelines, length, explicitness requirements (Haru made particular internal note of that), only asking that the two authors submit regular drafts – every few chapters or so – to the editor and agent to keep tabs on their little experiment in collaboration. Haru had no problem with that.

All details of the work – schedules, meeting locations, means of communication, any thoughts on the content itself – were left entirely up to them to decide. The publishers also postponed formal discussion of the money other than to specify a fifty-fifty split, dependent on equal work done; Haru stretched into a subtle boat-pose on his pillow at this point, giving only slightly more than two shits about finances, and sneakily observing the way Yamazaki perked right up and made a few notes with a fountain pen in a sleek leather notebook. So his new collaborator was motivated by money, eh? The ways in which they were colossally mismatched kept growing…

Before parting, Yamazaki caught him while he slid his various stylish business accessories into a black leather shoulder bag.

“Nanase. We need to determine next steps.”

Haru had been leaning over deciding which baked goods to make-off with – having had zero appetite during the emotionally draining interrogation (whoops, conversation) – and finally deciding to slide the entirety of the platter into a single napkin and shove it in his bag. He glanced up in time to see Yamazaki’s look of incredulous concern/disgust/fear – it was a very complex expression, actually.

“…what?”

“Do you _really_ plan to eat all that? Do you know that carbs are basically poison on a cellular level?”

Haru grabbed Yamazaki’s forearm (neatly filing away the sudden _holy shit, how is ANYONE this muscular…??)_ and gasped down at him. “Yamazaki-san! You’re an organic chemist on top of all your other talents! What a Renaissance man!”

Yamazaki made no move to shake off Haru’s offending hands, just unfolded from his pillow so slowly and ponderously he seemed to never stop, just kept rising and rising, like something out of a bad American sitcom where the next step was Haru getting his ass kicked by the schoolyard bully. He stared up at the heretofore unknown and slightly-alarming heights of Yamazaki Sousuke, some dim part of his brain noting the very unusual shade of the other man’s eyes (something Haru always honed-in on). Turquoise, he thought.

Yamazaki oh, so gently took his hands from his arm and placed them against Haru’s chest with a pat. “As I was saying,” he said calmly, gazing down at Haru (…indulgently? fondly?...???), “We need to decide what to do next. How does Saturday morning look for you?”

Haru had nothing. As a barely-self-supporting writer, Haru’s Saturday – or his Friday, or Thursday, or Wednesday – consisted of clawing awake at noon, laptop unfolded over his face or crammed awkwardly under his body or maybe on the floor, paused in the middle of some great thought he was feverishly describing or some endlessly-spooling porn GIF or in more than a few instances, a Skype IM window starting with _Haru? You there?_ to _bathroom break, huh? ;)))_ and eventually _honey, hope you have sweet dreams, we’ll pick this up next time *kisses*._ He’s sure as shit not rushing off to any meetings, with the vintage record store a possible stop after frying up a nice chunk of mackerel.

“…Uh, Saturday looks good. Where do you think we should do this? I would say we could come back here but wouldn’t want to spoil all the happy memories.”

Yamazaki scowled. Haru got a feeling he did that a lot – it looked like it sat comfortably on the creases in his prominent jaw. Rei, true to his powers of observation and peacekeeping, nearly tripped jumping over to them.

“Oh, senpais! Perfect solution – why don’t you meet at our offices? We’re open – art never sleeps, after all!” He laughed a little frantically, the one Haru knows Nagisa calls his Count Chockula, which is so on-point Haru almost can’t stand it. “Please, why don’t you get your phones out and I can give you the address. We have comfortable and work-conducive spaces and whatever free refreshment you need. You may be surprised how many of our authors work there!”

“Hmmm. Sorta like the kids who did their homework in the library. The GOOD kids. Not that I would know about that,” Haru smirked faintly. He dug in the bottom of his bag for his phone while Yamazaki reached in the inner pocket of his blazer, producing the latest top-of-the-line something and staring at him again.

“You weren’t one of the good students, huh. Why does that not surprise?”

“Nah. Didn’t go to school. College, anyway.” Haru finally found his abused, ancient 1st-gen smartphone with the sparkly sticker of Nosferatu on the case.

Yamazaki had a dark look again, edged this time with frustration. “Nanase, I don’t get it. _Seriously_. You aren’t a moron – actually, I get the impression you’re pretty bright.” He shook his head. “But it’s like you’re on a mission to self-sabotage everything you do until you’re just this cynical, pissed-off, hollow caricature. Since when is ‘success’ a dirty word?”

Haru stared back. All the tentative goodwill appeared gone like a dandelion in the wind; Yamazaki seemed genuinely mad at him all over again, and Haru was right behind him. So he just did what he did best and slipped on the cool comfort of his poker face. He added a shrug too – what the hell – and turned to Rei, ignoring Yamazaki.

“So where the fuck are we going or do you actually want me to go to the trouble of looking at the front plate of one of my own books?”

Rei glared but Nagisa – bless him – laughed.

*

Saturday finally rolls in, and Haru feels a weird combination of _thank god, finally_ and _oh please god no._ He’s spent the past three days in a dreamlike haze of methodically working through as many of Yamazaki’s books as he can find (at the library, online, at a quirky-campy hipster bookstore downtown where he sets a pile on the counter and meets a knowing/salacious look from the pigtailed cashier). He reads at the kitchen table over a giant colorful stir-fry, he reads at the park, he reads in bed, he – best of all given his appetites – keeps a few on his shower chair and plows through them in the tub. He’s always been a fast reader.

And all the reading has kept him in a near-constant state of arousal that is deeply distracting and probably not good for his health. (They slap warnings on drugs that give you an erection for longer than four hours; where’s the public safety announcement for excessive romance novel consumption?) It’s different than straight-up porn. Haru has always felt that that’s a language he understands – hell, that he gets paid to _speak_ – and that the romance novel is a lower form of life reserved for unsatisfied housewives and giggly high school girls. But he was mistaken. There’s something that happens when you stitch all the fucking together with little interludes that foreshadow, that distract, that endear you to these silly two-dimensional characters. Haru finds himself not skipping to the next blow-job while at the same time getting genuinely turned on. And as a self-respecting _artiste,_ he knows this is the function of good erotica…which these proud and corny slabs of cheese certainly are NOT.

But they are undoubtedly beautifully-, cannily-written. And he can’t even find it in himself to be jealous of Yamazaki over it.

Another positive of his impromptu one-man book club is its powers of distraction: by savoring the Collected Oeuvre of Yamazaki Sousuke, he is handily unable to spin over to tumblr to see what he’s posted since Wednesday, see if he might have written in Haru’s inbox, see WHAT he might have written, see if maybe he shot something off in the Skype IM window – an angry one-man rant, or maybe a longing one, Haru doesn’t know what would be worse. He sort of doesn’t know how he’ll face Kisumi again after throwing the video grenade his way and having the nerve to be surprised when it blew up.

Kisumi’s in New York. Kisumi’s a damn college student without a job living in a beautiful lotus-eating haze of pick-up basketball games in the park and binge-drinking and a little light pot use and hanging out shooting the shit with his roommates and checking out the local gay club scene and heading to the dark recesses of the place where he can reach under the waistband of some (also) hot (also) young thing…

Every thought of Kisumi turns this direction. In the act of rationalizing his decision to suffocate their weird but mutually-beneficial little arrangement/relationship, he spins himself in circles and discovers that – imagine that – he’s made himself upset. Cosmic irony: he ran like the world’s biggest pussy when his pen pal showed flashes of possessiveness, but the thought of Kisumi engaging in the same behavior – while supposedly under Haru’s blessing! – makes him want to go do something crazy. Or stupid. Or both. And he can’t believe the alarming indicators, but all signs point to _YOU ARE FALLING FOR THIS STUPID INTERNET COLLEGE BOY._ And why wouldn’t he, really? Someone who called him beautiful and was the definition of beautiful himself?

So he knows he needs to reroute this energy. He knows he has a scary-powerful focus when he wants to, on things he cares about. He knows Kisumi can’t end well. So he redirects himself and rolls the new identity around in his mind experimentally:

_Nanase Haruka, professional romance novelist._

*

The offices of ReadFree are _nice._ Like, walking-through-the-pages-of-a-magazine nice. Haru’s never been there – a benefit of friendship, all formalities handled at the couple’s swank-yet-cozy condo. But seeing it, even with his first-meeting nerves, he’s struck again with pride in what they’ve built with their combined talents. They really make a symbiotic and efficient team, Nagisa the public face and extroverted interpersonal wizard, Rei the tireless crusader for beauty, whether it’s editing or book jackets. Or models for book jackets. Though Nagisa has a certain, say, SKILL for that task himself….

He must have the “I don’t have a clue where I am; please take pity on me” look on his face without even knowing it, because a lovely, petite redheaded woman diverts her purposeful stride over to where he’s stranded in the lobby. Her high ponytail sways as she comes up to him and she grabs his forearm and smiles warmly up at him as if they’ve been friends forever. He likes her instantly.

“May I help you get somewhere, sir?”

…AND she calls him “sir,” he in a giant olive U.S. Army jacket (FRANKLIN on the breast pocket) and an old, weathered, comfy pair of plaid bondage trousers. He just felt the need to dress for battle today in a sense, though he supposes his oversized Jackie O sunglasses nestled in his hair and flip-flops send a contradictory beachy vibe. As always, he cares about comfort first. And he loves the woman’s unconditional professionalism even more.

“Yes, hi… Do you know where I would be meeting with Yamazaki Sousuke…? You guys have a kennel on the premises, maybe?” So maybe the professionalism is one-way. He can’t help himself.

The woman’s eyes – lovely, eerie rose-colored eyes, reminiscent of Nagisa’s – almost bug out of her head and she covers her mouth. Then she’s straight-up guffawing, completely unladylike, never mind the sleek navy suit and plunging neckline she’s sporting. Yep, Haru is sorta in love.

“Oh, oh I’m sorry, that is just the BEST image for Sou-chan, oh…” She falters and pauses as she gets her giggles under control, simultaneously guiding them through a door and into an open-plan workspace. Haru admires her efficiency. “So – so if Yamazaki-san is part canine, that must make you feline. Ah, to be a fly on the wall at _this_ meeting!” She beams up at him, unusual eyes squinting in genuine pleasure. He blinks to find they’ve stopped in a quiet partitioned corner.

“We’re here, sir! Best of luck at your meeting. Tea and coffee and cold drinks, as well as snacks, are available right next door in the kitchen, free of charge. Good for creativity.” She winks, gives his arm a final squeeze, and swishes swiftly away. He watches wistfully, some little-boy part of him wishing she were joining them. And hell, writing the book with them too.

Breathing deep, he slips quietly around the partition. Yamazaki is leaning against a large oval table, perched on the edge of a decadent-looking cushy chair. He purposefully focuses on his laptop in front of him, face a mask of extreme and barely masked irritation. Haru smirks as he takes in the full tableau – apparently Yamazaki doesn’t appreciate being in the exact focal point of a Nagi-Rei conversational vortex, and it shows.

“ – and Sousuke-san, you know how I love your sci-fi AUs….maybe you could do a mash-up, maybe where there are aliens that are also vampires, and there’s a sexy CDC researcher who teams up with NASA –”

“Nagisa, aliens that are vampires? Is that a joke or are you serious??”

Nagisa and Rei sandwich either side of Yamazaki and apparently have abandoned their “no stylistic or content input” guideline. Nagisa happily uses a Danish from a plate on the table to wave in the air as he flamboyantly argues his point. Haru briefly wonders if he founded his business just to get to go off on topics of his choice and eat donuts. Rei’s motivation seems vaguely more professional.

Nagisa stabs the Danish at Rei, getting a sweep of white icing across Yamazaki’s slim fleece pullover. He jumps, hissing. Nagisa doesn’t waver. “Do I LOOK like I’m joking, Rei-chan – ”

“Who’s the kick-ass redheaded woman?” Haru asks loudly, wandering over and dumping his messenger bag in a chair. Three heads snap up to gape at him and their looks are so improbably identical Haru can’t help snorting to himself. He pulls out his laptop and an overstuffed sketch/notebook, easing into one of the fluffy chairs with a little moan of appreciation and pulling up to sit cross-legged. They’re still staring. “…What?”

Rei smiles at him, reaching across and patting his section of the table. “Greetings, Haruka. It is simply wonderful to have you both here, ready to start this new phase of your professional lives!” He actually clasps his hands in front of himself like he might burst into song.

Nagisa shuts him down for them. “Damn, dear. This a work meeting or wedding reception?” He winks at Haru. “So you met Gou-chan!! Oh my god, isn’t she just the best? I am so happy to be gay and spoken for or work would be a daily test of willpower.”

Rei huffs at him and Yamazaki withdraws completely into the depths of his chair, arms crossed, face dangerous. “Nagisa, you know you would be a perfect gentleman, even if you were cursed to be straight.” He turns back to Haru, who’s been disturbingly fascinated by the increasing winds blowing at them from Tropical Storm Sousuke. He wonders what’ll happen if he upgrades to Typhoon status. He’s also vaguely amused his dear friends are apparently ignorant of the signs of coming danger. “That was Matsuoka Gou-san, our chief financial officer. She is an absolute treasure, worth her weight in, well, _something_ precious. She and I click very well on the business side of things – she could probably run a small country easily. But she’s just such a pleasure to work with, too.”

“Do you know –” Nagisa is back to gesturing with the pastries again, this time an éclair. A little blip of custard falls on the table. “She is, like, one of the _best_ hottie scouts out there. SO handy for rounding up guys for book-jacket models or, uh, other things. Something about her big brother being a model, or actor, or something in the _industry_ , not sure really.” He smirks slyly. “She apparently showed her potential early – she would judge ‘muscle contests’ in high school or something. All I know is, why couldn’t WE have gone to her school, am I right? Sousuke-san, back me up here.” He leans back to Yamazaki and whacks him playfully on the shoulder –

–and Yamazaki _erupts_ from his chair, knocking it back violently and sending Nagisa and Rei flinching back from him. He’s boring holes at Haru again, brows pulled down, jaw taut. “I’m sorry, but we can’t work like this. Thank you both for making this space available, but we’ll be working elsewhere.” He swiftly packs his things as Nagisa and Rei continue to gawk speechlessly, then nods firmly to Haru. “Get your stuff; we’re leaving.”

Haru’s speechless too, sitting as Yamazaki pulls his bag on his shoulder – his _other_ shoulder, he notes – then strides around to him. He’s about to pull Haru up by his arm and Haru just flicks a glance up at him through his bangs and something in his eyes stops Yamazaki cold. “You better not try me, Yamazaki.”

He slowly releases Haru’s arm like he’s sorry to do so but doesn’t move away. “Let’s go to my place. I have a condo in Azabu with lots of space and everything we need to work.” This close Haru can smell his cologne, something subtle and spicy, and sweet, musky. Crazy-, crazy-expensive. He suddenly feels like laughing hysterically. He’s pretty sure that, in exchange, Yamazaki gets to enjoy his drugstore shampoo, the stuff that says it’s herbal but just ends up smelling like bubblegum.

He crosses his arms and launches back unthinkingly. “Ahhhh. You gonna show me your etchings, too?”

Yamazaki just blinks back for a few long moments. Haru hears a suspicious, suppressed sniffling from Rei’s side of the table. “I have a pool in my complex. Lap-pool. They try to keep it about 22 degrees and get pretty close. 24-hour access.”

Haru’s shoving his stuff in his bag before Yamazaki’s done talking.

***

That Sousuke, he KNOWS what Haru likes … and Haru’s gonna have a Pretty Woman moment next time I think when he checks out Sou’s neighborhood of [Azabu](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Azabu,_Tokyo) ;)


	6. In just 7 hours I can make you a man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Said it b4, never stop saying it: You gals (& guys) are the best for reading and your comments are PRICELESS. Arigato <3!
> 
> Also: finally, Haru and Sou get down to brass tacks. And 2 key figures make an initial appearance, of sorts :)

Haru ambles along behind Yamazaki as the giant man stalks to the parking lot. He has no hope catching up to the ground-eating pace of his stride, which has always irritated him – when he has to lag behind an inevitably-taller walking companion – but damned if he’s gonna ask him to slow down. Yamazaki is still _pissed._ It telegraphs from the unyielding set of his head on top of his absurdly powerful shoulders (though…though one isn’t so powerful, is it; Haru wonders), the rigidity of his stance, which is almost a military march, the sheer speed with which he’s hauling ass away from the publisher’s offices. The reaction seems woefully out of proportion to the situation and Haru wonders at it – as he’s been finding himself wondering so much about this big, frustrating, infuriating, confusing guy for the past week. EVERYTHING Yamazaki seems out of proportion to the situation. Then again, he guesses Yamazaki would probably charge him with the same. And not in a good way.

Then – to his sorta-shock – Yamazaki comes to an abrupt stop outside the front door, turning back to him almost penitently (???). It’s so sudden and unexpected Haru practically plows into him and is glad for his decent reflexes, veering around him instead and pulling up like they’re two Formula One cars finishing a race.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ditch you like that. Wanted to get out of there and not waste any more time. Are you really OK to go work at my place?”

Wait – so Yamazaki’s getting permission from him now – and _apologizing_ for something? He’s tempted to look for the mark on the back of his neck where the aliens have shot him with the brain-controlling chemicals. But with tremendous effort he holds his sarcasm back.

“No, that’s fine – I’m used to being shorter than about 99% of the people I’m with. Male people, anyway. Nagisa excluded.”

Yamazaki looks murder-y at Nagisa’s name again but it passes, and he smiles faintly. He touches Haru’s arm lightly where he’s got his hand shoved in the Army coat’s cavernous pocket. “Let’s agree not to mention Hazuki for a while. Or Ryuugazaki, actually. So you didn’t answer me – how do you feel about going to my apartment?”

There’s something in his (beautiful…?) eyes then that Haru wonders if he’s conjuring, the product of being a single socially-maladjusted perpetually horny gay male virgin – and author to top it off (make that PORN author) – all of which make him extremely prone to reading intent all over the place when it may absolutely not exist. There’s just…wistfulness. Hope. No, scratch that, too innocent – just, plain, _intent,_ something raw and hungry and ruthless, maybe the look in the eyes of the wolf in the Three Little Pigs story. Only in this case, this Wolf is inviting HIM into his own place…and like an idiot, he is apparently about to gaily skip on in.

He wonders if Kisumi was right.

He blinks up and just as quickly, there is no such thing in Yamazaki’s face; he’s got one thumb hooked in the strap of his laptop bag, and his other hand in the pocket of his indigo jeans, and is politely waiting for Haru with patience that was nowhere to be seen in the meeting room.

“Sorry…miles away. Sure, going to your condo sounds like a great idea. I’d offer my place but I’ve got a studio and we’d probably have to work on my bed.”

Oops.

“We could work in my bathtub, that’s maybe bigger…” Digging deeper, genius.

Yamazaki does the nice and too-rare thing where he smiles, small but genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes and transforming him completely. Haru’s breath catches despite itself.

“No, let’s try my place. Maybe when we, uh, _get a little closer_ we can graduate to yours, OK?”

Haru silently thanks Yamazaki for his rarely-displayed tact. “Deal. And what’s this about a pool…?”

*

Oh my God.

Haru is NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE.

He doesn’t give a good goddamn (or a bad goddamn, or ANY goddamn, really) about money in his own life. He actually finds the whole money business deeply distasteful. It’s one of his favorite leisure activities, to point out instances of particularly conspicuous consumption when he and Nagisa and Rei are out and – loudly – to make sarcastic comments or go on a socialist rant or make a loud sarcastic socialist rant about the selfishness of “some people”. Nagisa encourages his _Les Miserables_ tendencies, and Rei turns various undiscovered shades of pink and pretends to not know him, but he can’t help himself.

He values people’s right to be free to do whatever the fuck they want to do (it might be his life-philosophy; would that make him a libertarian?) but he also knows everyone needs help to get by. He feels so strongly about the power of people to meet goals together that his only tattoo – on the inside of his right wrist so he can always remind himself when he’s tempted to hole himself completely away – are the words _For the team,_ in his own feathery script.

So people who have so much money they have to throw it around, like it’s almost a _requirement_ once you hit a certain tax bracket, Haru simply doesn’t understand. He doesn’t need any of that. He has his bizarre and random collection of clothes that do the job of keeping him covered and warm (usually). He has his grocery store trips to feed his need to cook – with the occasional decent meal at a restaurant (and Rei and Nagisa invariably pick up the tab when they’re all out, regardless of his protests). He has his bookstore trips and record store trips and the odd video game, but it’s wonderful how much of that you can find secondhand. The biggest items eating at his budget are his apartment (unavoidable and downsized as far as possible) and concert tickets and cover charges. Haru is a live-music addict – he HAS to go, Japanese or Asian or Western acts, vocal or instrumental, he doesn’t care if he can’t understand the words. But after all that, to say he “lives simply” is an understatement.

So his first internal jaw-drop hits as they pull up to Yamazaki’s car. Yamazaki drives a Jaguar. Of COURSE he does.

Haru pulls his door open and slides in quickly, pulling his Jackie O shades down out of some weird impulse to go incognito in this ridiculously overpriced monument to ridiculous overprice-ness that he’s about to be seen riding in. Not that he’d run into anyone who would know him, of course. But the impulse can’t be overridden. Yet he can’t deny that the leather seats are decadently plush (no matter how hard he tries not to relax into them) and the whole thing sorta feels like sitting in the cockpit of the Prime Minister’s private plane. He swallows.

Yamazaki’s tossing his bag in the back then getting in the driver’s side, and sneaking a glance over Haru knows the man is in his element. His long legs stretch comfortably and the bucket seat cups his lanky frame almost lovingly. Haru finds himself gazing at his hands as he makes the absentminded little “readying for takeoff” gestures (though he doesn’t drive himself), near-hypnotized by the ritual they present. Reach in to twist the key with a snap of the wrist, flip some sort of pulsing techno Haru can’t place on the fabulous sound system, come up to tweak the rearview minutely; no motion wasted, long, deft fingers, assertive, strong. They’re drumming on the wrapped-leather wheel and Haru looks back up to Yamazaki, to find him unabashedly laughing in his face.

“Oh my GOD, Nanase. My God. Those…those glasses, I don’t know how I missed them in there. Jesus, who the fuck dresses you anyway?? I’ve been meaning to ask you and other things like, oh, you being a complete asshole to me keep getting in the way.”

Haru blinks. “Oh. You interested? I could TOTALLY make you over, honey. Hmm, I see…a…Butthole Surfers t-shirt, pair of jeggings, combat boots, maybe one of those ironic-Christmas cardigans. Dog-collar. Definitely. Ever thought of dyeing your hair?”

Yamazaki looks horrified. Genuinely. “ _Jesus_. You’re single, right? Because I think I’ve never met someone who tries harder to be relationship Kryptonite in my life.” He could start driving them out of there and away from the sudden turn their conversation has taken, at least symbolically. He doesn’t.

For the second time this week, Haru has a clear opportunity to be a grown-up, and fails.

“ _I_ wonder why, A, you automatically think I’m single, and B, you even wanna know in the first place.”

Yamazaki barks laughter again. “Uh, _Nanase,_ let’s just say I’ve been around. And your, uh, _inexperience-_ slash-lack of attachment is so obvious, it’s basically written on your forehead. Why do I wanna know? Let’s just say I feel sorry for you – just like everything else in your life, you insist on skating by and not meeting your potential. And that is fucking _sad.”_

Why aren’t they driving _out of here?_ Haru shifts and turns his face to stone as he looks out the windshield. “You offering to be my first time, Yamazaki? I think I might cry.”

Apparently Haru said the magic words – Yamazaki gapes at him, literally gapes, mouth hanging silently – then turns stiffly to face forward and steer them away.

*

Haru’s second internal jaw-drop is a gradual thing, working its way into him as they inexorably approach Yamazaki’s place and the neighborhood gets nicer and nicer, swankier and swankier. But he barely notices. The ride is deeply strange; wordless on both their parts, scored by the techno he turns up loud to try to take the place of the silence, a silence that’s awkward and hostile and tense yet tinged with some kind of badly-defined tenderness, or maybe sympathy, pushing tentatively towards Haru in waves.

He has no idea what he’s doing with Yamazaki, or what he’s playing at, or if he’s trying to play anything at all. He doesn’t run anything he says to the man past any of his filters, shoddy and off-kilter and out of practice they may be. His mouth just _goes,_ reacts, freestyle. And he doesn’t know what the fuck the other author could possibly be thinking of him now: here they are, just about to begin a project together for an intense and close-contact period, a _professional_ project, and Yamazaki’s right. He HAS acted like an asshole to him. And now to sweeten the deal he’s basically outed himself as a 30-year-old virgin – the definition of oversharing – and to top it off propositioned the guy.

As sexy gestures go, Haru did NOT have this in mind. As they glide along, he repeats to himself, _Screw him if he can’t handle me. Screw him if he can’t._ And breathes.

The tasteful, boutique-y stores bleed into parks and then handsome low-rise apartments, then discreetly-perfect modern-design homes, tucked into the gentle hills they’re climbing. Yamazaki’s finally, finally pulling them into a tuck-under garage that opens for them. They swing into a spot and he shuts off the car, and it’s suddenly too quiet. He turns to get out and pauses.

“Were you telling the truth about being a virgin?” he asks without looking back at Haru.

Haru puts his Jackie Os up. “I never lie.”

Yamazaki shakes his head helplessly and, like that, their tension recedes again. Haru shrugs back at him. _What?_

*

Yamazaki’s place is just _silly._

“Oh…come _on._ What?? You live here? _No_ one lives like this!” Haru can’t help bursting out at him as he lets them in the front door of the PENTHOUSE SUITE, tossing his keys on a stylishly-distressed sideboard in the entry hall. “You are NO ‘romance novelist’. Bullshit. You yakuza??”

Yamazaki snorts and doesn’t reach for a gun to blow his pain-in-the-ass head off, which thankfully suggests he’s not. “So, is Mister Fuck the Mainstream reconsidering his life-choices?”

“‘Mister Fuck the Mainstream’…I actually sorta like that. I’ve always wanted to do some stuff under a pen name.” He wanders, wide-eyed despite himself, into an obscenely generous open-concept space, a sleek modern kitchen he can just imagine playing in (???) stepping down to a Western-style dining area dominated by a huge table of some sort of volcanic glass, flowing over to a conversation area, black leather sofas and a glass-faced fireplace. The whole place is ringed with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the green urban sprawl of Tokyo-proper, Fuji-san looming in the distance.

He stops and stares up at a huge painting over the fireplace, at a shimmering and dangerous and heartbreakingly beautiful underseascape, ripples of teal light splashing a craggy wall dropping off into blackness, a fleet of reef sharks on patrol in the foreground, the cigar-like form of a whale shark a silhouette in the distance. He can’t quit staring.

“…You like the ocean, huh?” Yamazaki’s lost his bag – and his fleece pullover, too, just wearing a plain-white tee now like a darker, more-Japanese James Dean though the irrational moodiness is consistent. Haru traces his gaze over the way the tee hugs his upper-chest, shoulders, biceps, and drops softly down to the wide leather belt at his waist. Yamazaki’s focused on filling a kettle and doesn’t notice.

“Yeah. If I could live down there, I would. Screw this dry-land shit. That painting is fantastic.”

“I love this wall off of Palau – some of the best deep-water pelagics migrate past there, like that whale shark. So I got that commissioned to remember that spot even when I’m not able to get down there.” He sets the kettle to boil and reaches up for a skillet hanging above the center range. Haru professionally doesn’t gawk at the perfect four-fingers-worth of tanned ab exposed as he does so. “You SCUBA?”

“I’ve never even had a snorkel in my mouth,” Haru says without thinking and Yamazaki pauses with the skillet in midair. “Damn, I think I would love it though. But I really don’t know if they could get me back up.”

Yamazaki laughs. “You want an omelet? We need some brain food to get started.”

“Sure. Thanks.” Haru had managed to whip up a chunk of mackerel before running out this morning but that feels like it was about a year ago, especially after the weird spikes of mini-drama today, and eggs sound good. He tosses his bag on one of the sofas – under the _perfect painting_ he can’t seem to stay away from – and then shrugs out of the Army jacket. It’s pleasantly warm in the suite, and he’s glad he wore a tee underneath (with the Periodic Table on it in case they’ll need to know the atomic weight of Barium for a rim-job scene or something). He heads to the island. “You need help?”

“Nah. Wouldn’t want my kitchen burning down, I own the place after all.” He glances up at Haru as he pours eggs through a separator – and stares, lingeringly, as obviously as Haru had to him. “Hmm, you actually have some muscle on you, Nanase. You work out?”

Haru gives him his horrified face. “GOD, why? Pulling on some stupid machine like I’m jerking off a robot? Running to nowhere? Talk about obnoxious. I only swim.”

He scoffs. “Were you put on this planet SOLELY to irritate me? You are gonna waste away, kid!”

“Don’t care.”

Yamazaki looks at him like he’d sorta like to chew his tongue off to spare himself the trouble of talking to him anymore. “We’re gonna fix this. We’ll take breaks and I’ll teach you how to use the machines in the fitness room, the free weights, spot you to make sure you’re safe. You’ve gotta learn.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be in the pool.”

Yamazaki shakes his head firmly. “We’ll see about that.”

*

They’re sprawled in the living room area, laptops ready but closed, low black table scattered with notepapers. Their empty plates are stacked to the side (Haru pleasantly surprised at the egg-white and octopus omelet) and they’re buzzed on endless mugs of green tea, strong and good.

Yamazaki insisted they start with character sketches. “That’s where everything else comes from. I may write schlock, when all is said and done, but I still care about these characters. They gotta feel _real._ If the reader doesn’t care about them, then the whole thing is sunk.”

Haru blinks up at him thoughtfully where he’s tucked on the floor, head pillowed on the table on his folded arms. Yamazaki’s on one of the couches, the picture of professional ease with one leg crossed on the other and notebook in his lap, looking down at Haru like his shrink. “You know, I can tell that from your stuff.”

Yamazaki looks like Haru’s just slapped him with a fish. “How would you know? Did you actually read some?”

“I might have, yeah.” Haru decides not to get into how much.

Yamazaki is … blushing. Yamazaki. Blushing. “Well. Good. I would certainly hope you researched me given what we’re doing here. ANYway. Character sketches are so simple to do, we should easily be able to nail our two principals before we move on –”

“Awww yeeeeeah.”

Yamazaki expertly ignores him. “So here’s what I’ve found works: We think up our absolute _dream_ guys.”

Haru sits up, leaning on his elbows. He doesn’t even pause to think. “Okay. Well, big, obviously –”

“That is SUCH a porn cliché.”

“– big _body_ , not dick, dick.”

“Oh, if I’m a dick, you’re the goddamn KING of all penises, dude.”

They stare at each other, then Yamazaki’s bursting out laughing again and Haru’s continuing like there was no interruption. “I know it’s because I’m small, so we sometimes go for what we aren’t. But I just see one of our guys being just big, and solid, and _ripped,_ but not to the point of beefcake, you know? More….comforting. Secure. Grounded. Gentle.”

He’s sketching absentmindedly as he speaks, unaware that Yamazaki’s eyes are pinned on him like something important depends on what he’s saying. “Like….oh, like my body, for instance?” he asks casually.

Haru stops sketching. “Yeah, I’d say so. Maybe a little more filled-in, a little softer, a little bit less pumped. I just keep thinking the word ‘comfort’…I don’t know if that makes sense. But you’re a good model.”

“Hmmm.”

Haru’s beginning to see a face now, and his heart is starting to pick up. “Okay. Green eyes. That’s key. Gotta be green. Goes with that feeling of comfort – green just says ‘warmth’.”

“Teal, say?”

“Mmmm… no, I’m seeing like…a green that’s so classic GREEN you don’t bother tacking on another name. Your sorta prototype green. Crayon-green.”

Yamazaki looks the strangest combination of intrigued and pissed-off. Haru ignores it, plowing on.

“Messy brown hair, like he couldn’t care less about it. A kind face. Downward-turning eyes, like you – so he seems like he’s sorta indulging you all the time. _Always smiling._ ”

Intrigued is beating-out pissed-off now. “Damn, Nanase. You’re starting to make me fall in love here.”

“Good.” Haru glances down and stares, surprised, at the man he’s doodled, the absolute picture of what he’s described, naked and smiling up with such life he could swear he’s met the guy before. Yamazaki leans forward and snags the paper, wolf-whistling as he runs his eyes over the sketch.

“Can…can you do that again for me? Like a police sketch artist?” Now he looks excited and embarrassed.

“Sure.” Haru’s feeling stirrings of excitement, too; he flips to a fresh sheet, and at the same time almost gets a stab of superstitious fear, feels a chill despite the warmth of the room. It feels like they’re dabbling in something bigger than themselves.

Yamazaki’s face gets dreamy, and fond, like he’s pulling up an old memory. He rests his elbow on one knee and his chin in his hand. “My guy…my guy is all about _fire._ ”

Haru poises his pencil over the page and waits.

“Red _everything._ Bright red hair, messy like he cut it himself, long like he doesn’t give a shit about it…or, or maybe like he’s – like he’s feminine.” Yamazaki’s voice thickens and Haru looks up from the flowing lines, seeing the blush back on his face…only this time it’s a _flush._ Feminine, huh? So. Yamazaki likes his guys _pretty._ Soft hair. Upturned eyes. Small, maybe…or at least small-ER, which compared to Yamazaki isn’t hard. Or maybe…a LOT smaller.

Haru blinks out of his stare to find Yamazaki’s eyes on him and to feel the unmistakable weight of an erection-in-progress in his lap. He’s infinitely grateful for the black glass of the table to shield him as he shifts his legs sideways into a Little Mermaid, and taps the page.

“Feminine?”

Yamazaki’s voice is low, like he’s sharing a slightly shameful secret. “Yeah. Just…really pretty. Arched eyebrows. Almond shaped eyes – those are red again, same shade as that Matsuoka woman at ReadFree, actually. Angular. This’ll sound weird, but he’s got pointed teeth.”

“Like a vampire?” Haru peeks two cute little incisors from lush lips.

“No, no, no. Sharp all around. Like… like a shark. Don’t ask me why, it’s just calling to me.”

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” But he obediently forms a neat row of jagged teeth in the dream-man’s smiling mouth.

“Shut up, Nanase.”

Haru changes the subject. “Is he muscular?” he asks casually, his pencil describing a swanlike neck, a jutting Adam’s apple.

Yamazaki gets a dreamy smile on his face. “…yeah. He’s not a big guy – he’s actually relatively small. But he’s weird. ‘Cause he’s got some _serious_ muscle on him – from swimming, he’s _obsessed_ with swimming – but he’s still pretty. No – beautiful.”

Haru concentrates on his drawing and feels his cheeks burning. The words feel pulled out of him against his will and he wants to die laughing at the irony of it all. “Hmm. Like my body, for instance?”

He can’t resist flicking his eyes up under his long bangs. Yamazaki’s smile has turned sly. “Yeah, sort-of. Maybe a little more pumped. But you’re a good model.”

*

They’re in Yamazaki’s lounge, or study, or entertainment room – Haru doesn’t know WHAT rich people call all their different places when he’s got an all-purpose “existing-room” – but whatever it is, it has indirect lighting along the ceiling, and a massive A/V system on one wall, and a little bar tucked in the corner, and everywhere, on all the walls, books, books, books. Haru could happily hole-up here during the next apocalypse, or zombocalypse, or whatever, and they could come get him when the dust settles.

Their productivity surge has continued – after tacking their two lead characters on a little standing bulletin board Yamazaki brought out, they sat back and drank them in like visitors at the National Museum, then Yamazaki shifted them to the much-harder task of picking a theme. Having done this countless (well…12, apparently) times before, Haru assumed he could leave this part up to the “expert,” but Yamazaki just sat cross-legged at the table with a fresh sheet up on his notebook and a suspiciously-open face. So Haru leaned back and let his mind roam the landscape of pervy scenarios from his own fantasies, taking care to avoid what he’d already seen in Yamazaki’s books or elsewhere. Even with his twisted imagination, it was hard.

They volleyed back and forth for a long time, Yamazaki jotting his thoughts down without comment or telling him where it had already been done. (His grasp on the genre was both impressive and intimidating.) Haru felt no resentment at the ideas that didn’t make it to the page, even if Yamazaki was lording over him; those obviously weren’t meant to be, and the right one would make itself clear. Then he suddenly just _knew_ and burst into a round of uncontrolled laughter. Yamazaki looked startled at the sound.

“You OK, Nanase? You smoking up and didn’t even want to share?”

Haru ignored him. He’s getting good at that. “Hey, can we do a take-off on a book? Or a movie? If we switch it up enough do we avoid royalties or, you know, lawsuits?”

“You wanna do a gay _Titanic_ , don’t you.”

“Come on, Yamazaki.” Haru was getting excited and felt his brain streak along a plot-path of his ridiculous idea, feathering off into sidelines of dirty possibilities. He was prepared to launch himself at Yamazaki – whether to punch, tickle or molest him he wasn’t sure – but finally got his answer.

“No, as long as the title and plot are changed ‘substantially’ that’s allowed, though we have to be careful we don’t write a _MAD_ magazine parody.” This close, Haru saw his eyes glimmer, like he knew Haru was onto something. “What are you thinking?”

So they’re in Yamazaki’s perfect entertainment sanctuary, Haru having given up and convinced him the best solution was to just watch the movie when he – shockingly – told Haru he’d never seen it before.

“How, HOW is it that any self-respecting gay man has missed _The Last of the Mohicans_?” Haru asks over his shoulder for the sixth time or so, sunk in yet-another gigantic leather sofa with a simple stir-fry steaming up from his lap. The day has melted away, the lights of Tokyo winking on in the darkness outside. The second meal of the day from the guy is also delicious, and Haru is grateful and silently impressed. He has deep opinions about the importance of cooking for others, and he also gets the feeling Yamazaki cooks like he does everything else: to win.

Yamazaki’s coming from the bar after fussing over his bizarrely complicated temperature-controlled wine-chest and finally bringing something over. Haru has no idea what. All he knows about wine is it tends to come in wine bottles and he doesn’t like it. But he keeps his mouth shut.

“Not all of us gobble up any American crap Hollywood pumps out, you know. Plus it’s old, isn’t it? What’s your deal with movies anyway? Waste of time.”

“Is _Casablanca_ a waste of time? Is _Goodfellas_ a waste of time? Don’t think so. You’ll change your tune when you see Daniel Day-Lewis in a loincloth.” He’s amused by how Yamazaki pauses in the act of pouring two glasses of something red, then shakes his head and looks down for a moment. Haru glances up. The intimacy of the scene seems to dawn on them both at the same time; Yamazaki gingerly takes a seat next to him and shovels a few bites in his mouth.

Haru lets Yamazaki kick the movie off, not wanting to break anything. He just lets Yamazaki be sucked in, by the rolling hills and the danger and harsh poetry of the language and romance and – oh yeah – the unparalleled if too-brief sight of Hawkeye glistening in his almost-nakedness. To his great surprise, the wine tastes good at first sip – dense and dark and cherry-like – and as the bottle disappears so does the distance between them. By the time Hawkeye and Chingachgook are making their last doomed track up the cliff trail, Haru’s snuggled up against Yamazaki’s side, legs tucked up neatly, head fitting perfectly in the groove between his powerful shoulder and the hollow of his collarbone. Yamazaki is studiously, rigidly fixated on the screen, arms stretched oh-so-casually across the back of the sofa, neither welcoming Haru nor pushing him away.

Haru is sleepy. So, so sleepy. And _happy._ The room is dim and warm and Yamazaki is warmer, no, hot, almost burning where he’s curled against him. He completely understands now why people do this. Why people _touch._ Because it feels good, dammit. He’s buzzing and tingling in little pulses from where they meet and he feels a stupid little smile on his face and he lets a sigh slip out. He is absolutely, perfectly content. And he changes his mind. If there’s a zombobobolypse – zombolypse – whatever, he also wants Yamazaki here. For human heat-rock purposes.

*

Someone is gently, gently shaking him.

Haru mumbles and burrows closer into his pillow.

“Nanase. It’s over. What did you want to tell me about your idea?”

He turns his face more firmly into the darkness. “Nothing.”

***

If you haven’t had the pleasure of seeing [The Last of the Mohicans](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0104691/) DO IT DO IT YOU WILL NOT BE SORRY.

However, _I_ on the other hand am sorry if my glacial burn here is driving anyone crazy. It’s just an unfortunate (?) combination of Sou’s professionalism and Haru’s first-time flailing/vague conflicted feelings. But don’t worry, ya know how many people hook up at work…

Also, random thought - Sou isn't meaner to Haru for a simple reason: they don't have Rin to fight about. Yet ;)

And let's get ready to SouHaru this thing up next week, people! Can't wait :D


	7. There’s a first time for everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, finally able to post something for SouHaru Week! This is a twofer for Days 2 and 3: First Time and (Author) AU. Please keep posting and reading for this awesome event!
> 
> And: the commenters, kudo-ers, readers, subscribers for this silly story are ROCKSTARS. Arigato <333

Haru is awakened by the smell of something fabulous.

Salty. That’s the first impression. Salty and briny and mineral-y and bracing, tickling away at where he’s face-planted in an unfamiliar pillow enough to get his head up. “Mmmm…” he finds himself quietly moaning. He pulls himself into a cobra stretch and notes that, indeed, he’s in the creaky and buttery depths of a black leather sofa, sprawled on his stomach, a down comforter sliding off his back. So he never even made it back to his own place last night and ended up crashing Yamazaki’s, huh.

Again: what a flawless way to impress his writing partner with his class and tact.

Yet: why was he allowed to stay, why was he cozy and warm under Yamazaki’s million-thread-count comforter, why the hell was that _homemade miso_ he was sure he smelled wafting from the kitchen? Did he just wake up in a rom-com?

Haru stands and finds (curiouser and curiouser) his pants have dematerialized at some point in the night, leaving him in his Periodic Table shirt and jammers. He’s never been so glad for his underwear habits – he can almost hear the mythic pool beaming a call to him somewhere in the building. It’s been a dangerously long time since he’s swam. He folds the comforter neatly to stack on the pillow and is relieved when he finds his trousers peeking between the cushions. He’s vaguely thankful he didn’t think he was home in his stupor and full-on strip.

He pads out to the great room – following his nose – and finds Yamazaki perched at the island. He’s leaning forward to read something on an iPad in front of him, pausing to tip a ceramic bowl to his lips; Haru hears him slurping. When he lowers the bowl their eyes meet.

“Ah, Sleeping Beauty finally decides to get up. Another half hour and I was getting ready to talk myself into giving you a magic kiss.” He squints at Haru and puts the bowl up for another drink.

“That’s a crock. I researched the original Brothers Grimm manuscripts for a project once and the first draft just had the Prince’s kiss give her herpes.” Haru shuffles around the island and guesses at a cupboard, finding a bowl on the first (lucky) try. “Total fucking downer. Brothers Grimm, man.” He gives Yamazaki his widest-eye look then leans over the pot simmering on the stove, sticking his face in the scented steam. He could _live_ in here. “….you make this?”

Yamazaki sighs and unnecessarily yanks the bowl from Haru’s hands, ladles soup in. Tofu cubes bob playfully in and out of the dark threads of seaweed. He dips a ceramic spoon from a drawer and sets it all at the stool beside him.

“Want a drink? I have coffee ready. I could crack open another bottle but maybe you should pace yourself.” Aha, THERE it is – maybe he should be surprised it took him that long. He pats the stool, smiling beatifically.

Haru is proud to hang onto his blank stare like a pro. Yep, passing out and waking up in strange guys’ places was a walk in the park. It’s just something he does. Um…he DID.

To his shock he hears his mouth telling the truth. “Just water. I’m kind of a lightweight so as you could see it doesn’t take much for me. Sorry for inconveniencing you like this.” He slips onto the stool and stares down intently at the counter. “You didn’t need our first writing session ending with me passed out on your couch.”

Yamazaki blinks slowly at him, once, twice. He frowns and goes to the fridge, returns with a bottle of water, leaves his hand on the counter between them. “Don’t worry about what you do to relax. It was a long day. And don’t apologize for your anatomy. You can’t help being little any more than I can gloat over being big. All you can do is maximize what you’ve got.”

“Oh my GOD, there you go inspirational-speaking again. I’m gonna start calling you ‘Coach’.” He impatiently decides the miso is cool enough (and the bowl a convenient place to hide from the traitor blush he can feel forming) and drinks deep. He almost burns his mouth off but it’s worth it for the perfect balance of the soup, good enough to practically make him hallucinate a rocky shoreline leading to a sheltered cove…

Yamazaki _must_ know. “You are an _excellent_ cook. That’s an important skill – you should be proud.”

Yamazaki scoffs at him, leaning back and cradling his coffee mug. “Uh huh. I bet you live on ramen. I get the feeling you’re only doing this damn project so I’ll feed you.”

“I’m an excellent cook too. I’ll repay you – we’ll be at my place eventually and I’ll feed you. Don’t worry.” He drains the bowl greedily and is starting to love not acknowledging Yamazaki’s digs and jabs: acting like Yamazaki hasn’t said a thing, he FEELS the big man getting irritated-approaching-angry, jumbled-up with something else, searching around minutely and not knowing where to direct his troubling impulses. He lays a hand over Haru’s on the water bottle.

“Let’s swim before we get into any work today. Clearly _you_ came prepared –” he glides an unexpected hand down Haru’s jammer-covered thigh, there-and-gone, but Haru jumps anyway. “That is too hilarious, by the way. Do you just – wear them all the time??”

Haru decides to jump again, all the way off the stool. “Pretty much. It cuts down on the number of arrests I get for indecent exposure.”

Yamazaki shakes his head.

*

They stand side-by-side at the head of the lap pool. The generous and echoing room is otherwise empty as they go through their pre-swim warmup and stretch rituals like a couple of Olympians. UNlike an Olympian, Haru blatantly eyes Yamazaki. In his typical over-thinking/flight-of-fancying, he thinks the other man looks like something ancient, or maybe mythic. Sure, his black legskins are the latest in modern competitive swimming technology. But the line of his form, his brash but perfectly balanced proportions, the quietly ruthless hidden symmetry of his muscles, crowned by the essence of “maleness” about the careless sweeps of his short black hair, the handsomeness and danger in his features…. This is a guy who needs to be charging across the countryside on horseback in samurai armor, or romancing Cleopatra (and/or Caesar…?) in a brief toga. This is NOT a guy who should be covering that body up and crouching over a little computer to write fucking _romance novels_.

He’d like to say the other man’s back is turned or at least eyes are averted as Haru basically assaults him without touching him, but he knows otherwise. He’d also sort of like to say he’s ashamed of his forwardness, but he knows otherwise about that too.

“So Yamazaki, what’s the plan? A little light cardio, get the blood going for a good start on the day?”

Yamazaki stalks to their towels he’s brought down and is suddenly flicking something at him, which he catches on reflex. Latex cap and goggles, like everything else top of the line. He unthinkingly pulls both on with the comfort of getting dressed (or, in his case, undressed). Yamazaki’s doing the same.

“We’re racing. 50 meters. What’s your stroke?”

“Free.”

“Okay. First race freestyle. Second race stroke of your choice.”

“I only swim free.” Haru’s already dropping into the pool, spinning and somersaulting briefly underwater in simple happiness for being there, where he’s truly able to totally relax, be weightless, be at peace. He finally pops back up to find Yamazaki waiting in the next lane, elbow cocked onto the pool deck, fingers lightly drumming in impatience but with a tiny indulgent smile, like he’s being delayed on a dog-walk but can’t help watching the cute fluffy thing’s antics.

They take their places at the wall. Haru stares straight ahead, thinking of the water, breathing deeply.

“Count it.”

He feels Yamazaki tense-up like a wildcat ready to pounce next to him. “Your marks – get set – GO!”

At his roar Haru springs forward, arms reaching for the other wall and head pivoting to Yamazaki and toes reaching for the back wall, each form and motion and interconnection more natural for him than walking. His usual radical Zen in the water is pummeled in swells by the dark presence right beside him, snaps coming to him of a violent S-stroke and rough churn of powerful legs threatening to sweep him away and a face – a face that’s a minimum of information with the cap and goggles (like him), but even so that’s burning across the meter separating them. Flaming with the message _I WILL BEAT YOU. YOU’RE MINE._

Haru – who abhors competition in principle if not always in practice – feels his last afterburners light, a fresh pulse of power surge through him as they reach the wall in tandem. The world turns with familiar violence and then he’s an arrow, throwing his body away from the wall in diminishing waves before cresting and tearing through the final meters. He keeps his head down and sprints for the end, Yamazaki a full typhoon beside him –

–and snaps up, knowing, knowing, _knowing_ he’s the winner.

They just gasp harshly against the wall for a few minutes, not speaking. Haru is silently pleased that he recovers at the same time as Yamazaki, despite the other guy’s likely brutal fitness regimen. He glances over, one eyebrow raised. Yamazaki’s got a look, a slightly scary look, a fully-disbelieving look.

“You swam competitively.”

“Mmmm, well, if you call our little ‘Fun-Club’ back in Iwatobi competitive. We had a grand total of three solid and consistent members and could never keep the fourth spot filled, so had to give up on building anything that lasted.”

“You have _that_ and you never competed?” He sounds angry now, bordering on fury, and Haru finds his own hot anger sparking in response.

“Hey, we were victims of circumstance. You know something, it was Nagisa and Rei with me, and Nagisa in particular did everything but tie people down and Clockwork Orange ‘em with movies about swimming until they were brainwashed into joining. Not that it mattered.”

Yamazaki still looks disproportionately upset. His jaw works for a moment before he speaks. “It’s a _sin._ Natural talent, _beauty,_ like that, you needed to do whatever was necessary to nurture it. Your parents were irresponsible jerks for not putting you in a school with a better swimming program.”

Haru coolly gets into position at the wall for round two. “My parents are jerks but weren’t around, so there was no one to help me with stuff like that but me. And I don’t believe in sin.”

*

Yamazaki’s mouth is hot. And wet. And _deep,_ and violent in its insistence and power as it plumbs Haru’s. Haru feels the tiny hysteria-center of his brain (somewhere in the primal brain, maybe the amygdala) laughing and laughing at his total-cliché interpretation of the new sensations bombarding him. This very unhelpful part of him is also enjoying how inept he is, how helplessly he’s clutching the front of Yamazaki’s big athletic sweatshirt like he’s a little girl as the big man leans him precariously into the back of one of the living room sofas. How he’s all reaction, second by second, instant to instant, pulling out of the way just in time as Yamazaki dives in from a different angle, the big man groaning lowly and cradling his head in both hands. _At least I’m breathing right! Thank you, swimming. And FUCK you for nothing, brain…._

They part and take a minute, panting almost as harshly as after the second race when Haru won by an even wider margin. Haru so tentatively slips his hands up Yamazaki’s chest – wondering again at the warm solidity of his pecs, so much more _real_ under his fingers compared to his eyes – and creeps his fingers around his neck, peeking up. Yamazaki’s eyes have the flat sheen of some nameless predator…but his thumbs are stroking the sides of Haru’s face so lightly, the touch is almost a whisper.

“….where…?”

Yamazaki’s tipping them both up like a plane seat returning to its fully upright position, and before Haru knows it he’s being firmly led towards the entertainment sanctum…

And past, past other doors he assumes are a bathroom, a guest room…

Into a wide, vast room bathed in sunlight from more floor-to-ceiling windows ringing it and surrounding a raised dais, a king-sized bed on a severe modern-art-looking iron frame. Haru’s being tugged in that direction so fast he’s almost stumbling, then they’re sinking into the yielding softness of a black comforter, kneeling and facing each other and breathing like it’s just been a marathon versus a few steps. Yamazaki’s yanking Haru’s t-shirt over his head and rocking him suddenly back to tug his trousers and still-damp jammers off in one move like a magician doing the tablecloth trick. The image hits him and he busts out in a shot of breathy laughter, but Yamazaki is undeterred.

He’s rocked back up to face Yamazaki, nude, hands somehow snugged behind his back and pinned to the comforter without him knowing how. He’s stretched, arched out like a bow, straining half-pleasurably half-irritated against his caught arms and deepening his stretch. Yamazaki leans in close, other hand threading through the hair on the back of his head and pulling it back to look up at him, eyes dancing hungrily over the sight beneath him. He tilts his head and descends, and is kissing Haru again, restlessly. When they come up this time Haru can’t shut his gasps up.

“I have been WAITING to get your stupid clothes off for so long…” Soft. Against Haru’s ear. A low chuckle, bemused, out of breath. Then: “You can do me, if you want.”

Haru just stares up at him, gasping forgotten. He’s assaulted by a digital-IMAX-projection-worthy image of their current situation, Yamazaki’s nylon track pants pushed down enough for business, powerful legs bunched around him, tensing and relaxing as the giant fucks himself to completion on Haru. Ruthlessly efficient.

Nope. Even an arrangement as relatively low-performance-expectation as that sounds inconceivable here, now, with his absolute-zero real experience, with THIS man. He can’t do that. He can’t penetrate this man. He can’t FUCK _this_ man…!

Haru swallows and hopes he looks coy and not terrified.

“No…no, will you fuck me…?” How, in fact, does one ask one for one’s sexual gratification, anyway? Why the FUCK didn’t they teach that in the stupid school he couldn’t escape fast enough? He feels overwhelmed, and ridiculous, and so far out of his depth he’s glad he’s such a good swimmer. And despite all that, absurdly turned-on. All other instances of being turned-on in his life, regardless of how satisfying or kinky or memorable or in certain instances, special, seem tiny and muted. This, THIS is racing across his skin, through his skin, burning him, turned up too high, too much. Is this normal? Is this what _everyone_ feels??

Yamazaki’s entire face – not just his eyes this time – gets the Big Bad Wolf look, and he’s firmly turning Haru like he weighs nothing and guiding him face-down onto the bed. Haru puts his head in his arms – not knowing what else to do – and senses Yamazaki motionless above him, looking, assessing. He almost jumps out of his skin from surprise when a single fingertip finds its way from the nape of his neck, straight to the knobs of his spine, where it weaves lightly through, continuing smoothly into the crack of his ass and lower before slowly withdrawing. He hears the slightest sigh from the other man and can feel his own breaths chasing each other, too fast.

Then Yamazaki shifts to the bedside table, opening the drawer and rolling back up to Haru with a few items. He slides a tiny plastic vial with some clear liquid into Haru’s hand.

“Take this. It’ll relax you. It’s practically made for sex.”

Haru doesn’t even ask what it is. It could be a rufi and he could end up sold for parts in Yamazaki’s tub (the source of his secret wealth, exposed!). He just cranks off the top and tips the entire contents down his throat; he doesn’t even taste it. Yamazaki’s gentle as he takes the empty container back. Then he disappears altogether behind Haru and Haru feels the bed shift, hands sliding his legs apart enough for someone to fit in there. Hands smooth firmly up his inner thighs, reach his ass, ease the cheeks apart, do the weirdest thing where each hand massages each glute in turn, like his ass is getting the most erotic and surreal and sorta-loving wax-on-wax-off Mr. Miyagi treatment….

He’s giggling, so hard it trails off into little snorts, and as he shuts up he realizes he can breathe. Finally. He can pull in a long, long breath as he hears Yamazaki snort behind him, a giant breath and he’s not even on the bed anymore, he’s up, heading for the ceiling. And Yamazaki’s with him, pacing him, hands firm and grounding anchors on his ass as there’s a wetness, and a _push,_ a firm yet pliable muscle tracing him and sucking him delicately and shoving inside him.

“Oh!” is surprised out of him and Yamazaki’s tongue circles powerfully within him, dipping deeper, making him squirm against the pinning hands. Yamazaki’s rimming him. _Rimming_ him….and he didn’t prep himself, didn’t even shower, but he did swim, he swam in Yamazaki’s pool and was faster but he saw Yamazaki in his legskins, the ones _painted_ on him like he’s some mythic creature, some swimming centaur….which he guesses would just make him a merman, huh, genius.

Haru’s giggling again, and melting into the comforter this time, melting instead of floating, melting like sinking into that leather sofa next to Yamazaki, burrowing himself into his side and never wanting to come out… And Yamazaki’s turning off the T.V., and pushing him into the cushions, and they’re melting together, and sinking deeper, deeper, and his fingers are joining his tongue –

Haru gasps and Yamazaki works in him, professionally, and Haru loses all sense of time, he’s just spread deeper and wider, if anyone came in the room they would see nothing left of him. There’s the sound of metallic ripping and quiet slippery sounds as Yamazaki must be getting himself ready, and he’s making little groans as he does so, and Haru wants to _see._ He wants to _see_ what Yamazaki has in store for him, what Yamazaki has, period, what he tucks into his pants when he gets dressed in the morning and what he pulls out at the urinal at public bathrooms and gets other guys to sneak a look over at, what he sticks up the ass of other guys, so many guys, guys on book tours, guys in this very bed –

And Haru’s feeling bad, suddenly, feeling stabbed with sadness but Yamazaki’s going on ahead, Haru feels a heavy weight settle-in on his thighs, legs gripping his sides. Another firm, wet muscle but duller, “stupider” than the last one… and bigger, a LOT bigger, sliding past his first entry point and just keeping on, slow but unyielding.

Haru’s gasping again in breathlessness and wordlessness – he can’t say anything even if he wanted to – and just struggling to keep a hold on himself and the situation through the pain. Ah… Ah it burns, it _hurts_ , it feels like he’s being rearranged, like someone has claimed him as property under eminent domain and is shoving their way in, taking down whatever was there before.

Yamazaki stops where he is and waits, breathing harshly, and the world stops spinning and the planets stop spinning and Haru’s head is still spinning but everything where they’re joining relaxes oh so slightly. Big hands are stroking his back, up and back, up and back, it’s no back massage oh no, but that too is unwinding him, just a bit. Then another _push,_ this time not stopping, and Haru buries his face in the comforter and pants. The weight feels complete now, the other man so close to him now they’re basically one animal, they’re some weird mythic creature, some really pervy centaur, _he’s a beast,_ he’s a horse or a donkey or an elephant or something, he’s gonna be ridden. And that maybe should bother him. Probably.

He discovers something – as Yamazaki moves, slowly and painstakingly first, for some measureless time, moving so deliberately, then picking up tempo, rocking deeply in and out of Haru, both hands splayed across his shoulder blades and _pushing_ him into the bed with each thrust, groaning above him like he’s in pain. He finds out that he _likes_ it. He likes the feeling of sinking, of weight, of being obliterated in a firm hold between a soft bed and insistent hands, even though he’s burning, he’s being continually remade, there’s nothing he can do but gasp into the darkness between his arms and work to pull in each breath and try to rock back into the swells.

But even as he weirdly needs the heaviness – the ponderous security of the weight on his back, on his ass – he’s hit by another crashing realization that the rest of him feels totally untethered. Unhitched. Free-floating in the universe on a spacewalk without a safety line, and just as alone in the dark. Alone. What else is new?

Yamazaki shifts and readjusts his angle, then he’s chasing his orgasm, fiercely, grunting in time, finally going rigid somewhere above him and exploding in an almost frustrated sigh. He drops onto Haru’s back, arms over Haru’s, as he gets his breath back. And the weight, the total, real-deal full-body weight, is so comforting to Haru and was what he was apparently looking for all along, he could almost cry. Yamazaki’s sliding out and Haru winces into his arms.

Well. Guess that’s it. That’s all there is, that’s all she wrote, th-th-th-that’s all, folks. What the damn poets straight and gay have blathered on about since the beginning of time. He didn’t even come.

And he’s crying. Stupid, helpless, breath-hitching, try-his-damnedest-to-stay-quiet, genuine crying.

Yamazaki puts soft lips to an ear, tentatively folds hands over his. “Did you…”

Haru can’t even speak through his tears. He just angrily shakes his head.

He’s being lifted, so very gently despite the power behind the arms that are shifting him until…until –

He’s cradled in Yamazaki’s lap, one arm supporting his back, the other behind his knees, his head pillowed on Yamazaki’s shoulder. They look more like Michelangelo’s Pieta than anything else, the hysteria-center of his brain puts-in again, sounding weirdly calm and helpful. The thought stops his tears abruptly and he blinks up, breath hitching, cheeks wet…and sees a brand-new expression on Yamazaki’s face. A wondering, unsure, open, soft expression, all lines in his face relaxed, turquoise eyes wide, lips parted. Haru wonders what in the world is in his own face to elicit something so lovely.

Yamazaki’s tilting his chin up and leaning in, and their kiss this time is slow, tentative, tender, their lips melting. Haru’s melting, the emptiness that took him releasing its hold slowly, and Yamazaki’s other hand finds his half-hard cock, takes hold with care but also conviction. Haru finds his fingers are as deft and strong as they looked yesterday – pulling up by his fingertips alone, circling the tip teasingly, feathering down to smooth rhythmic circles around his balls. He’s gasping again for a wholly different reason and reaching out blindly to grab Yamazaki’s shoulder, digging his fingers in as his strokes fold together, begin to resolve into a pull and release with the liquid power and rhythm of waves on the shore.

He’s thrusting helplessly into Yamazaki’s hand now – and Yamazaki’s waves build, build, _crest_ –

“Ahhh –” he’s breathing, body a rigid bow in Yamazaki’s arms, before the bigger man dives in to swallow whatever else he might say in a frantic kiss. This orgasm feels _ripped_ out of him, bolting out and painting his abs and chest as he sinks nails into Yamazaki’s shoulder and the hand gradually slows its strokes.

Their lips part and Haru drops his head loosely back to Yamazaki’s shoulder, eyes closed, breathing deep. _Exhausted_. He shifts his hand down and sneaks it around Yamazaki’s torso….who lowers them both back onto the bed. They aren’t on a pillow. They aren’t even pointed the right way. But Haru can’t give less of a shit, rearranging his legs to curl up against Yamazaki’s side, holding on to him tight.

When Haru peeks an eye open, he sees Yamazaki smiling.

***

I cannot believe I’m doing this, but here: have Michelangelo’s immortal [Pieta](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/1f/Michelangelo's_Pieta_5450_cropncleaned_edit.jpg) O.O

I ALSO cannot believe (a) I deflowered Haru this way and (b) that Sou, after all his sex, is apparently so crap at it! To these points: I feel for some reason that these 2 characters would either hop more or less immediately into the sack, or never do it at all. This being fanfic, I obviously had to go with Door #1 ;P. And I felt very strongly that there’s a shortage of “imperfect” 1st times here, especially where we get to explore even a little bit of how it wasn’t what they were expecting or hoping for.

As to Sou-chan being way too aggressive with a 1st-timer (!) not communicating (…) giving drugs (?) and not even realizing the guy hadn’t come (!!!)…well, I think all may be indicators he’s had a string of hook-ups – but no one to love. And hopefully he showed his potential for same with that finale ;D


	8. An auspicious beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to the inevitable SH "frick-frack-paddywhack" (sorry) from last chapter touched me more than it had any right doing. THANK YOU readers for your enthusiasm and fabulousness <3

Rei is TIRED.

Just, plain exhausted. The words marching across the endless white pages have turned into undiscriminating black worms probably a half-hour ago, but he just kept pulling his cushy chair closer into his work desk and throwing another handful of edamame in his mouth in denial. He knows he’s done, finally, when his pen drops onto the desk and he realizes he’s been dreamily gazing at his screensaver for God-knows how long. He allows himself one more cycle (of New Zealand vacation pics, most by Nagisa, who for all his spastic tendencies is easily the better photographer) before thumbing the monitor off and putting a marker in his spot in the manuscript. Out of curiosity, he swivels to his briefcase standing open on his desk and lifts out the thick courier envelope containing the week’s galleys. He pulls out the next one down to see what new horrors and thrills await him.

He stops and stares down.

His eyes hardly leave the front of the folder as he absentmindedly flips off his desk lamp, then heads to their room with a short detour to switch off the low under-cabinet lights in the kitchen. He hears Nagisa as he gets closer; who could he possibly be on the phone with this late?

“- right! Oh, no, sweetie, I totally agree. Do you know how completely precious you are to even think about this, much less wanna do something about it?”

Rei’s interest is piqued. He shuffles in and Nagisa instantly looks up, giving him a soft, sleepy smile as he listens that Rei privately thinks is his favorite, as impossible as it would be to have to pick from his husband’s many kinds of smiles…all wonderful. He smiles back and creeps over to the side of the bed, laying a gentle hand on the messy blond head and drawing it down the side of Nagisa’s face not-occupied by the phone, teasingly, finally pulling away. Nagisa squints up at him and sticks out a pink tongue, and Rei chuckles quietly; _Don’t you fucking DARE while I’m on the phone,_ that says.

“…well, uh, I would characterize it as ‘INTERESTING’.” Rei is eternally amused to see Nagisa actually air-quote for someone who can’t see it. “And even by the standards of Haru-and-Sousuke ‘interesting’.” Ah, so _that’s_ what he was talking about, which by the “sweetie” earlier probably puts this as a conversation with Gou-san. Rei immediately tunes in while pretending to be absorbed in shedding his work clothes and pulling on soft silk pajamas.

“- oh, they didn’t last 15 minutes! It was just NUTS. But I’ll tell you, it was all Sou-chan. He was bitchy practically the second he got there and the bitch-factor only got worse the longer he sat there with us. I don’t know if he’s some kinda control freak who has to have 11 perfectly-sharpened pencils in front of him and a, dunno, dwarf blowing him in order to work, or what.” Rei’s eyes pop out for a moment as he brushes his teeth in their attached bathroom, almost killing himself choking on his toothpaste.

“YEAH!!! We should think about it as a contract-sweetener. Price that out, willya sweetie?” Nagisa’s guffawing. It takes him a minute to be able to talk again. Rei finishes in the bathroom in the meantime and comes back in the bedroom, surreptitiously snagging the manuscript from the bureau as he heads for the bed.

“…yeah, ANYway, he did this weird thing… he went over and practically threw my man Haru over his shoulder to get him to leave with him. Real caveman stuff! SO weird. I thought Haru was gonna, I dunno, pull some nunchakus out of his bag and kill him.” He laughs again. Rei slips under the covers beside him and sighs in pure pleasure as his overworked body falls slowly into bed and he relaxes for the first time all day. He puts his glasses on the headboard shelf and rubs his eyes.

“But no, they just had this … this _moment,_ they’ve had those in their meetings, in between all the _REEOR!”_ Nagisa makes a perfect catfight sound and Rei snorts. “Just, like, _charged._ Sou-chan mentions ‘pool’ and like that Haru’s like ‘I’m yours’. Then they took off.”

Rei hears Gou’s light laughter through the smartphone and she’s giving him some kind of last words, from the finality of her tone. “No, that’s a terrific idea. I think he could use another friend, to be honest…. Boy just needs love!”

Rei’s heart jumps a bit as Nagisa makes his affectionate goodbye (telling her that Rei would strip for her if she just got her ass over to their place sometime, which got him a whack). Nagisa rolls onto his side after he signs off and trails a finger down Rei’s swath of pale chest. “Gou,” he says, unnecessarily, yawning hugely. “Get this, she wanted the 411 on the SouHaru thing –”

Rei scoffs. “’SouHaru’??”

Nagisa grins. “Catchy, right? Yeah, she apparently was totally taken by our dear Mer-Boy when they came over on Saturday and has been sorta thinking about him since. I think she’s a little concerned for him, given Sou-chan’s big-bad-not-ugly thing. Just wants to be sure everything goes OK, I think. So I gave her my-slash-our blessing to reach out to him and see if he wants to hook up, coffee, you know. Haru may get a new friend!” He puts his hands to his chest and flutters his eyelashes.

Rei is suddenly, embarrassingly touched. He hides the quick shot of tears behind another eye-rub. “Ah, that sounds very wise. My opinion of Gou-san just keeps growing and growing. I think I love that woman.”

Nagisa pops up for a probing, wet kiss, ducking down to leave a warm press of his lips on the V of chest he was admiring earlier, before settling back and turning wearily onto his side away from Rei. “Honey, I am so sorry to be such a party-pooper. Just so damn exhausted. Urrgh…hey, we’ll slow down and enjoy ourselves one of these days, right?”

Rei leans over the little blond, gazing down at him for a moment, tucked in sleepy softness and color and tousled beauty, lashes so long and dark against his pale cheeks he can hardly be real. His chest aches at the sight at the same time that he feels his dick reply to his man’s call, no matter the situation or setting. Sighing, he dips his head and noses against the nape of his neck, leaving a lingering kiss. He smiles against the skin as he feels a snore beginning.

Rolling back, Rei pulls himself against the pillows and picks up the manuscript with the oddest mixture of trepidation and excitement – his exhaustion nowhere to be found. His heart pounds as he flips to the title page.

**_DRAFT_ **

**_The Last of the Brohicans_ **

_by Yamazaki Sousuke and Nanase Haruka_

[RYUUGAZAKI: Nanase insists on this ordering. I’m guessing this makes sense given my much-higher profile. However we shouldn’t shortchange him as I’m seeing he’s actually a pretty hard worker. Let’s keep tabs on it. YS.

[Oh also – Ryuugazaki – I know you’re looking at that title and saying “No way in HELL.” We just couldn’t stop laughing about it and the more we sat with it, the more it grew on us. Pls see what you think. YS.]

_Chapter One_

Lieutenant Michael Tanglewood reached for the canteen dangling against the side of his mount, swaying gently with each step the animal took along the narrow path through absolute wilderness. The frontier was brutally, punishingly hot, humid, pressing in on them eagerly and increasing Tanglewood’s creeping uneasiness as they marched. Hostile territory, hostile territory, hostile, hostile; the danger may have been hiding in the lush undergrowth surrounding them, and as he quickly finished his drink to drop the canteen back against the horse’s side and unthinkingly gave her a pat, he straightened to compulsively sweep his sharp green eyes across the landscape again. It was far too quiet, that was the problem – too peaceful, too silent by half, woods that should be a riot of sound, birds startled from the trees at their approach, forest rodents, deer rustling the leaves; nothing.

Someone had been there first.

Unable to take it any longer, Tanglewood clicked his tongue softly and his horse responded immediately, carrying him ahead as he bypassed the soldiers in a weary but orderly 2X2. He pulled up beside his captain at the head of the company, who was mopping the sweat from his bare brow with a neatly folded handkerchief.

“Sir!” Tanglewood offered a crisp salute with a large, deft hand. His captain replaced his tricorn on his head and rocked back to consider the young man, sighing.

“Lieutenant, I certainly hope you aren’t going to blather on again about ‘ambush’ and ‘attack’. Your paranoia and, frankly, fear is beginning to weary me. I have high hopes for you and believe you have great leadership potential, but this constant _fear –_ ” The older man shook his head. “It is unbefitting a British officer.”

Tanglewood felt himself flush, hectically. His captain was not wrong. He _did_ walk through life on eggshells, always on alert for the next potential attack that could come, _driven_ by fear. Yes, it was certainly unbefitting behavior for a towering, strong, virile, handsome young man, let alone an officer on a military campaign in foreign territory. Yet he could no more change this about himself than his hazelnut hair that would never lie straight when he removed his wig or the slightly-sheepish downward tilt to his eyes or his generous lips. The fear was a part of him, as much as his desire to avoid arguments, his ringing, frequent laugh, his need to connect with the foot-soldiers with a word or touch though that was not the way things were done.

He had his reasons for his fear. Faceless menaces lurking in the dusk, skulking behind trees, crouching in a hedgerow; their humble careworn carriage hurrying by on the deserted country highway, his parents sentinels driving above; he and his siblings packed in the cab and giggling nervously, unaware of the peril about to tear their lives apart. Flashes in the dark, suddenly – the roar of flintlocks – the horror of two lifeless corpses falling to the cobbles, their _parents,_ screaming, screaming –

And it didn’t mean he was wrong today.

Tanglewood straightened in his saddle despite the slight tremor in his hands as he clutched his pommel. “Sir. I value your assessment, but respectfully, there is something _not right_ about these woods. Why have we not encountered a _single_ bird or animal since entering?” He could not keep the edge of terror from creeping in and pushed down his shame.

His captain darkened, eyes narrowing, mouth a grim line. “Lieutenant, this is the end of your…girlish fancies. We have an Indian scout already –” he nodded, unnecessarily, to the lithe figure of Franklin as he ambled gracefully – too-casually – ahead of them. “We do not need an Englishman who somehow thinks he is a red man. Please do not add that distastefulness to the growing list of your poor qualities.” He coldly snapped forward, hands holding the reins in his portly lap. Tanglewood remained for a moment, mouth open as he frantically tried to think of something, _anything_ that could change his mind –

“Dis _missed,_ Lieutenant!”

He pulled gently on the reins and allowed the company to pass him up again until he was back in the rear, utterly defeated. One opportunity to save them all, to stop the horror from happening _all over again…_ and he failed. He was useless. Good for nothing. Despite his giant frame and rippling muscles, he was completely powerless.

…and it was in this haze of absolute melancholy that he had no inkling of the bolo ricocheting through the air from the green beside them, connecting brutally with his head and sending him off his mount into blackness.

***

Rob Miller put a finger to his curved lips – _shhh, we have something here –_ other hand splayed in the air in warning. He heard the subtlest of sounds behind him from his two companions stop instantly. The woods were silent again, deeply silent, hushed and waiting.

No…there again was the delicate snap of twigs somewhere ahead in all the green, footsteps as something moved gingerly. Rob narrowed his flame-colored eyes, _willing_ them to find what they were tracking… And damn, got it, _got it._ A huge buck, majestic, graceful, yet enough to feed them all for weeks. A gift from the forest.

He brought his rifle oh, so carefully from his back, seating it against his shoulder, calming himself. Nothing else was here, not Stephen behind him, Kate drawing up the rear; it was just he and the deer, and when it came to marksmanship, nothing could survive Rob Miller and a rifle.

A single, thundering, echoing shot and the dark form staggered away and dropped out of sight. He turned back to see Stephen grinning madly, looking utterly insane between that and the light in his gold eyes and the wild corkscrews of his orange hair. Kate jumped up and down behind him, red pigtails bouncing in her excitement.

“You _did_ it, big brother! How do you always manage to _do_ that??”

Stephen turned laughing to her. “You know as well as I do he’s part-animal – half fish, half hawk, half man. What in the hell did your mother get with, woman?”

She shrieked laughter back and hit his shoulder, mock-scandalized, when Rob shut them both up again….for a very different reason. “Shhhh!! You hear that?”

They paused, until the ominous sounds of gunfire, screams, trampling underbrush were unmistakable. Not far, to the north. Rob was moving instantly without thinking about it, long strands of his flame-colored hair working out of his ponytail and dancing around his face as he sprinted, the disquiet in his gut turning to dread with every step, longrifle under one arm. He heard his friend and sister following.

At a low rise they crawled, peering over…at a scene of absolute chaos. Redcoats, a full company, Rob reckoned, in the act of being annihilated where they stood, scrambling frantically to form ranks and dropping under the fire from the trees and the swarm of Hurons sweeping in and cutting them down with machetes and swords.

They gaped. Kate seized his arm, hypnotized by the horror in front of them. “Rob, _help them!!_ You can do it!”

Stephen squeezed his shoulder on the other side. “She’s right, Rob. You’re the only one who can get ‘em from a distance like this.”

Rob was moving again without a second thought, tipping powder in as his ginger-friend swiftly produced and dropped in a bullet. He settled the rifle on the ground – sighted a running figure – cut him down. They grimly repeated this ballet, his sister taking over the powder for him, drawing no attention in the anarchy. After an unknown time Rob dropped his rifle, breathing hard and sweeping the scene.

The redcoats were dead, dying, crying their agony scattered throughout the abattoir. A Huron party was picking through the carnage and rousting anyone remotely well-enough to push into a rough caged cart. Slaves. Human cargo.

And that’s when Rob saw _him –_

Limp, lifeless, big enough to need two Huron to pull his unconscious body from the ground. Hulking shoulders and a broad back straining against his officer’s uniform, yet so powerless in his captivity. Unkempt nut-colored hair spilling out of a bow at the back. And… And a face tipping back as they heaved him up between them, a gentle face, a _beautiful_ face, eyes squeezed closed in what may have been pain, graceful nose, mouth falling open…

“We’re following the prisoner party,” he hissed to his companions. He sensed their wordless shock.

“Brother! What in the world are you _talking_ about!” Kate whispered frantically at him, rose-colored eyes flashing up in alarm. “What do you plan to _do_?”

Rob was already moving. “Rescue that officer.”

***

Tanglewood fought out of the blackness, moaning at the throb of pain in his head when he tried to move it. Somewhere in front of him, he heard a mocking “ _Ohhhh…_ poor _baby_ ” and light laughter. Fear stabbed through him, gave him the raw energy to snap his eyes open and leap –

-and fight against the ropes binding him tightly upright, spread-eagle on some sort of structure. _What??_ He snapped his head – heedless of the pain – side to side to find himself in a wide, open clearing, ringed by rough, primitive huts of some kind. Indian villagers gathered, chattering animatedly, children struggling to run closer and held back by adults. A caged cart stood off to the side of the clearing and a brutalized ring of his compatriots – all privates – huddled in the dirt beside it, bound together at the neck, moaning. Their heads hung down in total defeat and Tanglewood’s heart blazed.

“PRIVATES!” came roaring out of him, sending three heads up from the huddle in alarm. Their looks of total horror twisted the fear deeper into his gut. If _they –_ groveling wounded in the dirt – stared at him with such hopelessness…and terror…what was about to happen to him?

Suddenly a commanding voice was calling in a native tongue, people gathering to ring the clearing and watch at his words. The speaker strode into his field of vision…

And Tanglewood was horrified – and not surprised – to be face-to-face with the Indian scout, Franklin, who had smiled at him and joked with him and pointed out their route for him and touched his forearm, so casually, _too-_ casually, lingering.

“Lieutenant! It is so good to have you in this home, finally!” Franklin smiled up at him, and the worst part was the openness and friendliness was exactly as it was all those days together. The Bowie knife dancing from hand to hand, however, was remarkably different. He ambled close to where Tanglewood struggled in vain against the ropes, stopping inches away. He leaned his lean, tanned face in, as if he was about to tell the Englishman a secret, and delicately began to kiss his lobe, sucking it, stretching it, finally seizing it in his teeth and biting hard.

“Ahhh!!” Tanglewood jerked his head away, horrified and humiliated and flushed, wetness trickling down his neck. He stared determinedly at the dirt and tried his best not to look at this unknown devil or at the cluster of his captive men and their pained sympathy and relief that they were not the one in his place.

“Oh, does the beautiful English baby not like kisses?” The Indian seized his chin in an iron hand and guided his head up, wild jade eyes meeting icy onyx ones. “That hurts Black Sheep, Lieutenant. He has so much more than kisses to offer you, but if you don’t WANT his gifts…” He raised the knife, so casually as if it was a second thought. Tanglewood’s laces were parted from his stained white dress shirt, slowly, teasingly, down his chest to his abdomen. The feathers in Franklin’s (…Black Sheep…’s?) hair waved in the breeze as he bent to finish splitting his shirt, then straightened, eyes glinting. “Well, Black Sheep deserves to see _his_ gift.”

Two swift rips and he was shirtless, shivering in terror, a strange sigh going up from the crowd watching them. The Indian scout stepped forward, ran soft fingers around one nipple, the other, the traitorous nubs perking against his will. He smiled. “What a _pretty_ gift you make, Lieutenant. Black Sheep is war-chief, you know. You know him as _scout –_ ”he spat on the ground with venom – “But he is a man of great power. And men of power keep playthings.” He cupped Tanglewood’s chin, this time gently.

“ _You_ will be Black Sheep’s plaything.”

All the Englishman could do was stare, swept under by waves of shock, the world narrowing to a pair of depthless eyes.

*

Rei’s hands drop to the comforter, closing the folder.

 _Well…_ how very interesting.

He thinks he can probably work with this.

***

Slab. Of. CHEESE! And yet, how freaking fun a career would “romance author” be? Seriously. (Sorry for getting on the “let’s victimize Makoto Tachibottom” train tho.)

Something tells me Sou and Haru w/b needing to do some, um, ongoing research for their project.


	9. Get into the groove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> J'adore l'ecrivains (???) of the crazy-awesome comments here - not to mention folks who've left kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions. You make ao3 go 'round. MERCI <3

Haru is so, completely ready for some alone-time.

He’s due at Yamazaki’s at 2PM to get into Chapter 2 or whatever other professional-writerly stuff the guy does whenever getting a project rolling. Haru wouldn’t know; he writes with about the same amount of planning as he provides to anything else in his life, which is to say pretty much none. Writing isn’t something he does strategically, planting all kinds of tiny plot points early on to pop out like fictional Jack-in-the-Boxes later on. He knows that’s something readers eat up. He also knows he just doesn’t have it in him.

Haru doesn’t know _how_ he writes. He has no earthly idea where the ideas and the words and the impulses flow from, other than being sure it’s all him – he thinks any of his publications would be a decent approximation of who he is for someone who doesn’t know him. For better or worse. But when he sits to write, the front part of his brain – the one remembering when rent is due, that he has a lunch date with Rei, to get dressed in general – checks out. Just right the hell out. And his hands are taken over by something else, some other part of his mind, he has no idea where. His hands are taken over and words just flow out, _spill_ out, and he just tries to stay out of the way as much as possible. Things like outlines and theme-generating software and Post-it Notes and flow-charts (and character sketches) are not a part of his “process”.

Haru figures that’s why Yamazaki’s living in the _Maxim_ lifestyle photo spread and he’s … well, he’s not.

Which, strangely, is just fine with him. Except for the “24-hour pool access” thing. That could come in really handy.

So Haru is comforted when he blinks awake to the muted light of early morning through his own window sheers. Curled into a boneless comma deep under his own heavy, rough, very-off-the-shelf cotton comforter. The familiar geometry of his speaker next to the bed, a Yoda alarm clock and quarter-full glass of water and beat-up iPod and small stack of books (a graphic novel about a fox spirit falling in love with a Buddhist monk; a history book about the U.S. servicemen picked off by sharks after delivering the bombs that would be used on Hiroshima and Nagasaki; one of Yamazaki’s about rival Olympic swimmers) on top. No unfamiliar smells…though that was not necessarily a bonus given the utter levels of awesome of THAT particular smell.

If he could somehow get Yamazaki to get him up every day with that MisoClock…

He’s immediately hit by the completely familiar need to get in the tub, now. He throws his comforter off and follows the motion up and out of bed –

–and hisses as he walks towards the bathroom, taking each step gingerly and biting his lower lip. God _damn._ He almost can’t stand the, yes, painful irony of his situation, the absolute oh-God-he’s-living-in-a-gay-sex-health-pamphlet moment he’s having here. He’s written about this exact existential/physical challenge who-knew how often in his stuff, and now it was his turn. He almost goes back for his phone to text Nagisa in reflex for any matter falling in this general category before remembering he’d rather be torn apart by sharks than open THAT informational Pandora’s Box with his friend. Not now, anyway. He can think about later later.

He showered – in really, REALLY deep need of it – at Yamazaki’s when they both awoke from their little doze, he curled against the big man like some needy grabby nude koala, Yamazaki rolled towards him in his sleep with a powerful arm curled protectively around Haru and face buried in Haru’s crazy bedhead. There was a bare minimum of talking but when Haru made a beeline for what he assumed would be the bathroom, Yamazaki didn’t try to stake a claim on the shower first. Actually, when Haru reluctantly shut the water off and stepped back around the corner – Yamazaki had one of those ridiculously paradise-worthy models the size of Haru’s whole bathroom and without any walls – he found a fluffy stack of towels next to a neatly folded set of loaner clothes. The sweatpants were long, of course but he turned the cuffs up; “Todai” was printed on the faded tee and he ran a finger over what was obviously an old college shirt. As he passed it over his head he wondered dimly at the implications of wearing the big man’s clothes, then pragmatically shoved the thought away as the idea of sliding back into his was deeply unappealing.

Haru leans out and twists the “H” and “C” levers on the tub, then shrugs out of the tee and sweats before settling carefully onto his shower stool with the clothes in his lap. He folds them neatly and touches the soft fabric. Funny thing was, when Yamazaki came back from _his_ shower, in a fresh fleece pullover and sweats, he acted like he’d just had a deep-tissue massage AND an acupuncture session AND about 12 hours of sleep AND a pot of fancy-ass coffee. Energetic, enthusiastic, unmistakable sparkle in his eyes, cracking jokes and half-deferentially half-proudly leading them to _yet another room,_ this one an actual study/home office flooded with more sunlight. Haru interpreted his mood as excitement over finally getting started on the work, as he bustled around like a model host getting Haru set up on his computer network, arranging a little table for him to work, bringing snacks in for them and fresh coffee. He was acting so much like a dog showing someone his bed and toys, Haru had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.

Haru spins the taps closed and sinks into the perfectly lukewarm water, releasing his breath in a long sigh he barely hears. His tub really is perfection, as much as Yamazaki’s walk-in-closet-cum-shower but much, much more him. Deep enough to soak properly, a subtle boat-shape bowing out at the sides so lying in it felt almost like being in a bed that defied the laws of physics. _Big,_ able to fit two easily, not that Haru had had occasion to test that property out. He had convinced the landlord to allow him to trash the unremarkable tub the place came with for this one at his own expense, for no extra bump in his rent, which was a bonus given that it elevated his rinky-dink place considerably. He figures he’s paying it forward for the next tenant, who he hopes enjoys baths as much (well…an eighth-as much) as he does.

Head tipped back on the steep incline, eyes gently shut, Haru breathes deeply and reaches down his body, around his cock which seems not only OK this morning but sorta _sated,_ to tentatively trace a circle around his hole. His overactive imagination fears the worst – somehow, not seeing makes it scarier, the possibilities of the damage that may have been done blooming in his mind like a bunch of med-school textbook photos. And he knows he had about as much prep as someone might need – between the spit and the stretching and the lube and, yes, even the whatever-that-was Yamazaki gave him that he kind of can’t believe he took. But he also knows nature’s response to something that new happening down there (toys excluded), _with another person_ on another person’s schedule, has to be to close the gates. It’s common sense. And Yamazaki’s, uh, approach in bed likely didn’t do him any favors.

Haru doesn’t know if he should be irritated about that or not. What pushes him over the line into “not” is genuinely not knowing how he’d be with someone on _their_ first time. Would he be Mr. Sweetness and Gentleness? Or…more like Yamazaki? He has no idea.

But he’s relieved and a little pleased when everything seems to be … OK. More or less normal, if tender, comparable to how his dick feels the next day after masturbating when he’s too caught-up or lazy to use something for lube. And he had the distinct physical sense that Yamazaki was big, which makes him even more relieved. Such a variety of sizes and shapes of people, it follows that he may have not even been built for sex. Not with certain people, anyway. And even as petite as he is, that apparently is not the case. He feels a smile on his face.

The strangest thing about yesterday wasn’t even the sex, the almost-violently sudden transition into something…else. Being seen naked and seeing other people naked has never bothered Haru – he guesses that was swim-club locker-room desensitization from an early age, layered on top of a general impression that, hey, we all have a body and so can pretty-well guess at the contents beneath anyone else’s clothes, so what’s the big deal? Having sex? With anyone, much less someone he’s danced around with such prickly energy as Yamazaki? Again, it somehow doesn’t seem like a very big glitch in his Matrix at all. He always got new physical skills under his belt quickly and – like writing, actually – didn’t think he did himself any favors overthinking them. And he’s sure he and Yamazaki ended up in bed _because_ of their instant oil-and-waterness, not _despite_ it. Haru’s a great observer even with his lack of experience and he knows attraction takes as many forms as species under the sea.

(Well…maybe not THAT many.)

No, it was the _feeling_ that took over them when they actually got down to business, comfy in their sort-of matching sweats, munching the sesame crackers and Gouda cheese and mineral water and strong coffee Yamazaki had brought in for them, grouped around his big teak desk with Haru’s laptop and their notebooks and laying the initial groundwork. It was such a contradictory batch of twinned impressions, electrifying yet humming with the silent and peaceful pleasure of new creation, messy and chaotic yet quickly resolving into some sort of order, punctuated by smirks and open smiles and occasional peals of laughter yet just as often devolving into fierce and nasty verbal cage matches that seemed to be their specialty. It was the realization that as two independent operators only ever used to doing this alone their entire adult lives, this should’ve probably been a LOT harder than it was seeming to be, but that with all their (probably unnecessary) jagged edges, it seemed they … fit.

Their jagged edges fit.

*

“NO. No, no, no, he would never do that.” Yamazaki stands over him, paused in irritated pacing with one hand on a narrow hip and the other squeezing the bridge of his nose so hard he looks like he’s in danger of hurting himself. Haru blinks impassively up from where he’s tucked into one of Yamazaki’s cavernous desk chairs, arms resting on his raised knees. He blows a gum bubble to unsafe proportions and heartlessly kills it; the pop makes Yamazaki look at him with total incredulity, which amuses Haru.

“So, Yamazaki, how would you know what a nasty misguided sadistic kidnapping fetishist would or wouldn’t do? Something you need to tell me?” He twists the gum out of his pursed lips in a long rope just to up his irritation factor, raising his eyebrows at Yamazaki in genuine curiosity. The big man shoots sharpened daggers at him for a second before resuming his pacing. Up to the giant floor-ceiling windows, starting to shade towards dusk; down to the squat little chest in the far corner that Haru thinks may be a humidor ( _my GOD, this man would totally smoke cigars too, he’s_ _getting more macho than Hemingway_ ), back again. Repeat.

He finally diverts course and comes over to Haru, leans against his desk inches from him. Haru can practically hear and feel and see and, hell, smell the frustration pouring off him in waves. He wonders if Yamazaki gets this worked up when he hits a bump alone, or if it’s something about being with someone else, or with him specifically. He’s almost tempted to tell him to relax and the character will find itself, but has a distinct feeling that will be minimally helpful, at least at this moment in time. He just watches Yamazaki and waits for him to put his issue into words.

Apparently it’s back to the offensive for the big man, albeit softened by their new-found and tentative understanding. “Okay, _Nanase,_ you really are the most-tremendous pain in the ass I have ever met. You are not, I repeat, NOT helping to figure this out.”

Haru spits his gum into its wrapper and rearranges himself into a more-comfortable crossed-leg stance, unconsciously opening himself to the other man from his former closed position. He leans an elbow on a knee and taps a finger on his lips, thoughtfully, vaguely noticing how Yamazaki’s eyes are pinned to him, travelling lightly over his compact form. He hears the other man swallow.

Haru decides to try to share a little of his “method,” as carefully and gently as he can. “At times like this… I’ve found the less thinking the better.”

“’Less thinking,’ eh?” Yamazaki busts out in sudden laughter. “Any less thinking, Nanase, and I’m thinking you could flatline.”

Again, Haru blithely ignores him. He’s being helpful, dammit. “The trick is that you aren’t writing from your, mmm, conscious mind. It’s coming from somewhere else. Hell if I know where. But you just have to find ways to tap that. Especially true for the detail-y stuff like this. The big-picture stuff, the plot and outlines and stuff, you have me beat up down and sideways. But this…” Haru shrugs. “You have to find another way.”

Yamazaki’s eyes flicker and his shoulders drop a measurable degree. He licks his lips and leans forward, tapping Haru on one knee. “Come on. You’re making me think of something.” He starts to leave the room and Haru follows, out of curiosity as much as anything.

They end up in the great room, where Haru waits patiently; he knows ideas don’t pop out on anyone’s schedule so you can’t hurry them up. Yamazaki’s apparently deep in thought, or in some kind of _reverie,_ standing and staring at the hardwood floor with fingers to his lips.

He finally takes Haru by an elbow and guides them over to the conversation area. He’s still looking at the floor, half-deep in thought and half-…embarrassed? Haru cocks his head up at the big man. He’s been silent so long when he finally does say something Haru almost jumps.

“Okay. I think it would be really helpful to, uh, _act out_ the scene. I’ve been thinking it through around and around and just keep hitting the same blocks.”

Haru fights a smirk – _role-play,_ eh? But he knows he can’t make fun of this, because what he said was absolutely true – anything they can do to sneak around the rules and regulations of their brains and figure the story out, he’s okay with. To a point, he guesses – though what that point is, he doesn’t know…

“Sure,” he says, and almost feels bad at the relief on the other man’s face. “What are you thinking? You wanna be Tanglewood or Black Sheep?”

“Black Sheep,” he replies instantly, an odd combination of determination mixed with focus overlaying his Big Bad Wolf (just a flicker around the edges) on his face. Haru nods his consent.

“Okay,” Haru says. “You have me. I’m on the crucifix thing. You have a crowd. Is that when you’ll make a move? DO you even want to make a move? Or would you rather just keep me around for a while to, um, build the anticipation?”

Yamazaki settles both hands on his hips, walks him backward, traps him against the back of one of the sofas. Haru grabs his triceps in reflex to stop from teetering back onto the couch behind him, breathless from the sudden change of scenery; he looks up and cobalt eyes lock with turquoise, neither able to look away. “Uh… is that Black Sheep for ‘I would make a move?’ Help a guy out here,” he shoots off when he’s able to talk again.

“Oh, I’ll be making a move, alright. What’s the fun in saving your presents? I always like to rip mine open right away,” he gusts into Haru’s ear, lips delicate against the top of his neck, breath hot and moist. Haru is assaulted by chills racing up and down his spine, whether from his breath or his hands sliding underneath his shirt and up his back, or both, he has no idea.

“Ah! Ah, no, no point doing that now… You don’t want all these, _people_ watching, do you? Your – clan? How em…embarrassing,” Haru says hurriedly, frantically trying to keep up and think _what would big, beautiful, frightened Tanglewood say??_ and manage the surge in his heart and breathing and _dear God_ the surge to his crotch.

Speaking of crotch, Yamazaki has bumped one of his absurdly powerful thighs between his legs and has just…moved in, forcing his thighs apart and pressing him into the leather of the sofa, which creaks faintly in protest and is cool against the fever of his exposed low-back. He’s rocking in, slowly, almost subtly, which doesn’t go with the long twist of his mouth or the narrow squint of his eyes. At. All.

Haru makes a choked sound and tips his head back. He’s supposed to be role-playing their terribly victimized gentleman-in-distress after all, so it wouldn’t do for him to openly enjoy himself. TOO much.

“You know, you are so, so right, sir,” Yamazaki is saying, thoughtfully, hands having travelled up to the wings of his shoulder blades under his shirt and grabbing on, thigh keeping up his steady and almost relentless pace. Haru’s head falls forward and his hair spills into his eyes. He bites the inside of his cheek and _wills_ himself to be quiet, as the waves of heat lick their way up his abdomen and down his legs. “I really like the idea of giving us some more privacy. We’ll wait, for night, and a few of my trusted braves will cut you down. I’ll help you off with the rest of your shirt –”

He suddenly stops his addictive rocking (to a tiny offended cry) and yanks Haru’s shirt up and over his head as disorientingly-fast as yesterday.

“Ah – okay –”

“And then we need to get rid of these pants.” His hands fall to Haru’s fly and his eyes widen as he really looks at his electric-blue pleather trousers for the first time. Instant character-drop. “Um. Pleather?”

Haru whacks him on the arm, hard. “Well shit, my _breeches_ were in the wash. You wanna not keep a guy waiting, O Mighty Captor?”

Yamazaki growls. Actually, _growls._ Haru’s eyes pop and Yamazaki’s diving in to suck a nipple, _hard,_ like he thinks he’s gonna get something out of it, hands sweeping up his naked back to cradle his head again. Haru’s doing the same, working the spiky sworls and soft cowlicks of his dark short hair between his slim restless fingers, a string of tiny moans spilling from his lips as the big man’s sucking activates a livewire up to his skull and down to his tiptoes. He disengages with a smacking sound and worries Haru’s other nipple in his teeth with the absolute-lightest touch.

He’s back up and over him, Haru quivering and panting and not giving a shit at the state he’s in, and leans back into Haru’s ear. “Just a little reminder of who’s in charge here, _sir._ ”

“…no comment.”

Yamazaki’s not just shooting daggers now, he’s placing them with disturbing precision, as he’s back at Haru’s fly and the pants are gone faster than anything made of pleather has any right. He breaks character again at the sight of Haru’s jammers; Haru can swear it’s a fond look that crosses his angular face, and is definitely an amused one. But the jammers disappear like he just imagined them too.

Haru calls shenanigans.

He grabs the bottom of Yamazaki’s button-down Henley shirt and demandingly lifts it. “Okay, if we want realism, you’d be shirtless here too, pal.”

Yamazaki quirks a single brow – _oh, really?_ – and Haru steels himself for another drawn out sparring match. But he just crosses his arms at the hem and lifts the shirt off, and it’s all hard ridges and foreshadowing V-lines and the soft inverted Cs of his smooth pecs, revealed in quick and amazing succession, hairless and lightly tanned and too-real and too-close and _perfect._ Haru can’t even wait for him to toss the Henley away before he’s palming Yamazaki’s torso, his ridiculous and firm and beautiful torso, beautiful, beautiful. He follows his hands with his eyes and ends up with his fingers in the dips of his collarbones, flicking his eyes up to Yamazaki’s. He gets a feeling his impressions are written all over his face; the big man is blushing again, cheekbones and even ears hectic.

 _Thank you,_ Haru’s expression says.

Yamazaki clears his throat and firmly grabs his wrists. “So it’s late, and it’s dark, there’s no moon. Perfect night to take you over to –” He’s spinning Haru, suddenly, to face the back of the sofa, twirling his hands above him like a competitor in a Latin ballroom dance contest, leaning him into the firm edge deeply. Haru’s gasping in surprise and some protest.

“–an unused hitching post. A little rough, maybe, it’s not a featherbed at Versailles or Windsor. But what a perfect place to spread you out –” He stretches Haru’s arms to either side of the couch, wide, deep, enough to get him exclaiming at the pull in his chest. He squeezes Haru’s wrists for a moment.

Yamazaki’s voice is a little sheepishly out of character in his ear. “Here’s the part you have to imagine: you’re tied at the wrists now. We’ll have to use the honor system this time.”

Haru smirks against the cool overstuffed cushions. “On my honor.”

There’s a pause from behind him then, so long Haru almost gets up to make sure he’s okay. Then Yamazaki continues. It seems he isn’t done being out of character. “We…. We also will be doing this part differently. A LOT differently. I’m not too excited about doing some of the stuff to you that we may have Black Sheep do to our poor Lieutenant.” His hands reappear on Haru’s ass, massaging him – gently – in soft circles. Tenderly. Haru swallows and tries to keep certain parts of himself away from Yamazaki’s insanely-priced couch.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly into the cushions and apparently those are magic words, Yamazaki falling in and folding over and around him, until everywhere, everything he is (except for his outstretched arms) is sliding under and against and into something hard. And smooth. And so hot, Haru feels delirious, he’s almost as off into the sky as yesterday, completely sober.

Then a large, familiar hand gently finds Haru’s own hottest part, settling around as Yamazaki makes a little groan of what sounds like contentment on the nape of Haru’s neck. He doesn’t know where Yamazaki’s other hand is and is getting a fast impression of what he’s planning, and he has no complaints.

He’s right. Yamazaki’s voice is so quiet, so tender, Haru hardly recognizes him. “Let’s just play it safe today. Give you a little more time.”

Haru figures words are redundant at this point and releases an impatient “mmph….!” into the couch. Yamazaki gets his point, thankfully, and is soon stroking them in tandem. It’s like he’s playing some avant-garde piano piece where the thing builds to a crescendo and both bass and treble hands are passionately mirroring each other. The effect is like some kind of crazy synchronized sport that hasn’t been invented yet. They’re rocking together, in the purely dolphin-kick rolls he instantly knows they share from the pool, Yamazaki by simple fact of anatomy a much more powerful presence and Haru more fluid, but weirdly copacetic. Yamazaki’s moaning – somehow desperately – into the back of Haru’s neck, Haru joining him with helpless gasps.

Then he’s abandoning the playacting altogether, his hands are behind them and have found Yamazaki’s ass, have spread across and claimed their space. The shifts and squeezes with each rock forward are unbelievably erotic; seeing this would be nothing to the power he feels in his hands.

Yamazaki groans, picking up the pace, driving them towards orgasm like he had when he was inside Haru but doing it together, in tandem, night-and-day different. Instead of feeling left out, Haru’s next to Yamazaki, in the next lane over, they’re flying towards the end together, he doesn’t even care if he wins. He’s just high on the feeling of the tidal wave they’re riding –

–Yamazaki sinks his teeth into Haru’s neck –

–Haru seizes Yamazaki’s ass painfully –

As they sweep into a tie.

*

“…you know, I just realized you violated the rules. You moved your _tied arms._ ”

Haru glances lazily up from Yamazaki’s chest at the man’s face, so relaxed and satisfied it’s almost hilarious. He lifts one eloquent eyebrow. “So?”

Yamazaki pulls him in to his side closer so he doesn’t fall off the couch. “ _So,_ people who violate the rules get punished.”

Haru returns his head to his chest-pillow, unconcerned. It’s surprisingly comfortable.

“Bite me, Yamazaki.”

***

…ahhhh, baby steps – you think??? I thought the folks who diagnosed Haru and Sou’s deadly lack of communication in the last chapters were absolutely right. The catch, of course, is that we are quite-possibly dealing with the two most-stubborn characters in the entire KyoAni stable, which is saying a lot ;P. So any progress – in understanding how to play with others on a project or in bed – seems like a good thing.

Even if their working methods are a little, um, hands on.

Also: Haru’s bitchin’ [bathtub](http://www.tubzlady.com/images/Neptune/Osaka.jpg) … or close enough to it, anyway ;D


	10. Fun is more-fun together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NEW NEW NEW ;D - so this edit changes nothing except if you dial down to the endnotes, you'll find a link for a mental image of Black Sheep, if you like that kind of thing :)))
> 
> Decided this chap should be dedicated to the lovely zankyounofuckyou. Lady, hope the unsavory bits don't weird you out ;P
> 
> I will always, always get the little "Christmas morning" feeling whenever I see folks have kudoed, bookmarked, commented. You all are the best <333

Michael Tanglewood had never felt so helpless.

It was a perverse thing, the simple pleasure of the open night air, mouthing at his full nakedness without care or shame. Perverse, sick; that he could find any shred of relief in this living nightmare, that he could desperately look on the bright side as he compulsively seemed to do, even after two _savages_ cut him from his public bondage just to cruelly renew his bonds in some dim corner until full nightfall –

– when, in the eerie darkness of the moonless night, they had matter-of-factly stripped him of his remaining clothing and dragged him to an out of the way spot, the only witness to his humiliation an owl hooting mournfully somewhere in the trees.

Tanglewood might have struggled, even fought; he was a mountain of a man who maintained the hard planes of his chest, the corded power of his back and thighs, the firm globes of his buttocks by honest work maintaining his small estate, brightened by frequent dips in the lakes and streams that sparkled across his land. Yet he did not. He was as meek and compliant and broken as a cowed puppy, as if – like Samson losing his magic hair – stripping the soldier of his uniform removed the last trace of power he felt he possessed.

He also began to realize, with an oddly-dawning horror, that he was a victim of his own nature. As the two silent Indians led him, staggering, to an unused hitching post; as the larger of the two shrugged the coil of rope from his shoulder that Tanglewood hadn’t noticed; as his fevered mind supplied him with a blaze of horrific, vivid images – and sounds – of what lay in store for him – he simply … could not … hurt these men. It appeared, when push came to shove, that he was incapable of harming another human being, regardless of what they were planning to do to him….and he did not know if he should weep or laugh at the totally unconventional way to learn that he was unfit to be a soldier.

He wondered feverishly what else he could possibly do – tutor, perhaps? – mind spiraling away as the men worked with practiced ease to rope him securely to the horizontal beam. Not the first time they had prepared a toy for their master, their motions said. Would not be the last…

Two vicious yanks of the rope – one for each arm – and Tanglewood embraced the splintered wood with his spread-eagle arms and chest, head hanging, legs trembling. He was sure he was the absolute picture of lewdness, all shining and rippling and slick with sweat and leading with his posterior, as if he was presenting himself for some kind of inspection newly added to His Majesty’s service. He hung his head and closed his eyes and was overcome with shame.

His body was nothing special. He had no illusions about its importance. But it was the most private part of him, and to have it exposed like this, like a cruel joke, felt like a burning betrayal of himself. His body should be saved for the one – for the _man_ – he loved, were he to ever encounter the person wonderful enough to convince him to act on his deepest urges. It really _should_ be a gift, the natural conclusion of a hidden courtship and traded smiles and caught gazes, of trust gained and kindnesses bestowed and intimacy built. He should be able to take his man’s delicate (?) chin in a gentle palm, feather a kiss on his smiling lips, lower him into his master bed, and – under the glimmer of his eyes – reveal the harnessed power of this body for him, for him, only for his pleasure, _always –_

Tanglewood choked on a sudden unexpected sob and he heard one of the Indians make a quiet comment to the other, somewhere behind him, getting a chuckle in return. He watched a tear fall into the blackness between his bare feet, then a second, he heaved in a labored breath, he was _haunted_ by the sweet scene in his mind, the scene that would never be, _WHY_ wouldn’t his mind banish this fantasy-man and leave him ALONE –

“Oh….my. My, my, _my._ I do believe I have never witnessed a tastier sight in my life.”

Black Sheep.

*

“…. _whoo_ boy.”

Nagisa rocks back from Rei’s monitor and laces his hands behind his neck, shaking his head. Oh, man. MAN. So this is what their new little power-couple SouHaru (he’s so proud of that one, he gets a little parental feeling whenever he even thinks it) has come up with, huh? Um, WOW.

Rei has been totally cagey about their project so far, and – uncharacteristically – Nagisa had decided not to push it. He’d hear soon enough how things were going, what bizarre new creature was being painfully born from their totally unholy alliance, heh. Besides, it was very early days yet, anyway. They had their first writing session after that aborted attempt here at the office last Saturday, and here it was just Tuesday, but – his eyes flicked to the progress bar on the Word doc he’d just started sneakily reading – already they were two chaps in, if not three.

What the HELL explained that kind of productivity? Nagisa shifts forward in Rei’s space-age-looking ergonomic desk chair and hunches completely over at the oversized screen, totally negating any nice ergonomic effects. He squints, tapping both index fingers on his pursed lips, thinking over the intriguing mystery before him of the Supposedly Odd-Couple Co-Writers. Hmmm…how did two people ready to jump at each other and take each other’s throats out with teeth, nails, anything, just epic-levels of interpersonal shittiness, how did they magically overcome their differences in approximately 12 hours and form what looks like a pretty kick-ass working relationship?

He knows pools get Haru off, but this is ridiculous.

Decided, he sits back crisply and pulls up the office team’s calendars on Rei’s machine. With a few clicks he sees that his man AND Gou-chan are both free at 13:00 and – improbably – are both wide open the rest of the day. He books them all out in one of the editing suites from 13-on and cryptically titles the meeting “A LITTLE LIGHT READING ;)))”. (He’s, sadly, the only one on the ReadFree staff to use emoticons in all office communications.)

Invitation for the party made, Nagisa closes out of the document and logs off Rei’s computer. He’d stopped when things were just about to get fun. And it’s his life-philosophy – anything fun is a hundred-times more fun together.

*

Gou gets there first. She sweeps in in the giant-platform combat boots that Nagisa absolutely covets, the ones that look simultaneously like she’s a clubbing college kid and a deathly-chic Berlin runway model and an anime character that will _kick your ass up down and sideways_ and basically just something Nagisa kinda wishes he was. He sighs in pleasure.

“Hey, Nagisa! What’s up? What’s going on with this thing – you are KILLING me with anticipation here.” She’s beaming at him under her gorgeous long-bang, sleek red pony flopped over one shoulder as she leans on her elbows on the conference table, trying to reach a handful of the popcorn he’s put out. She throws a handful in and “mmm’s.”

“And snacks! You got us snacks. I am so suspicious, you have NO idea.” The beam turns into a smirk as she settles comfortably into a cushy chair opposite him. The editing suites spare no expense for comfort. They know that when people are getting together to painfully slog through a manuscript together – in a group, because two or three or whatever heads are better than one – that any little thing that can be done to cradle and baby their weak and bitchy bodies will mega-pay off in the long run. So they’re comfortably gazing at an eye-level screen – the doc pulled up to the nondescript front plate – with dim indirect lighting pampering their eyes and lots of good drinks chilling in the little fridge in the corner. Vital, in Nagisa’s universe.

Rei hurries in, gently closing the door behind him (in typical-Rei deference for the staff working nearby) and heading to the middle seat, dropping a stack of papers with a sigh. He bows to Gou – “Gou-san!” – before murdering Nagisa with a flaming violet stare. “Ah, dear, what exactly would you mean by ‘Light Reading’? Please tell me before I suffer a medical event over here.” He flips his head over to Gou, who hasn’t stopped smiling. “I swear to you, his ‘surprises’ –” Air-quotes, Nagisa could jump on him right there for being overly adorable. “–well, they get harder to take as we get older, not easier. I’m not sure what that means.”

Gou pats his elbow. “Just that you guys are keeping it fresh, I would say.”

Nagisa sticks his tongue out at them both and pulls up page one of the Unholy Hellbeast. “SOOO, we are gathered here today to kick off our shared enjoyment and monitoring of the fruits of the SouHaru Situation.”

Gou gazes at the screen for a second then bursts into raucous laughter. God, the woman had a LAUGH. She could give Rei-chan a run for his money, except where Rei sounded like some unhinged uber-villain, Gou’s laugh was 100% big-fat trucker. “ _Last of the Brohicans_? _Really??_ Oh my GOD, that title came out of THOSE guys?” She’s gone for a minute.

“Right??” Nagisa gleams. “Rei-chan, we are SO keeping that. Please say we’re keeping that. Please?”

Rei scoffs, but Nagisa can tell he’s feeling it, too. “I was sort of surprised by that one. Do you think that’s one of Haruka’s?”

“Oh, for _sure!_ It is deliciously tack-tacular. Just like our man.” Nagisa smiles at the screen, primitive visions of the cover art floating feverishly through his mind for a second. He shakes himself and brings them back to business. “K. So we’re gonna quickly all get up to speed here – Gou, you haven’t read any yet, and I think Rei that you aren’t up to this last chap yet –“

“So much for being discreet,” Rei mumbles.

Nagisa plows on. “Then, we’ll read together. Sound good?”

Gou’s pulling off her magic boots and delicately propping her feet on the table, eyes glued to the opening scene on the screen. Nagisa and Rei trade a smile and get comfortable.

*

The voice….the voice was his greatest torture. So, so soft, kind, a voice that suggested the scout ( _no…no, war chief)_ genuinely cared for him, had cared for him this whole campaign, this whirlwind through the wilderness. Enjoyed his company, built a portfolio of images of him in his mind, images he may have even called up when he pleasured himself – Tanglewood laughing heartily with the men, leaning too-deeply to determine if a stream was safe for drinking, the day he shared a fond description of the Tanglewood estate with the mysterious Indian.

Well, he would be sure to have a whole new album of images to draw from now, after tonight, and the night after that, and after that…

He tamped down his reflexive terror as a single finger materialized on his neck, lightly drawing unknown designs on each shoulder blade, connecting them, moving down his spine. “Well, pet, this is almost cruel. Your beauty. Black Sheep wants to do _things_ to you… _such_ things…” The finger turned into the point of a dagger where it was and drove into him, until he was gasping from the brute pressure. “But why? Why would I ruin such a pretty thing? That would be like cutting a Chesterfield sofa. Black Sheep is not stupid.” A _tsk._

“Then Black Sheep knows, and feels almost good. There are many, many things we can do that leave no mark on these arms –” The finger was a wide-palmed hand, firmly – painfully – squeezing him down one arm, down the other. “–this beautiful back –” Five dull nails, pulled skillfully back from the point of drawing blood, raking down his spine. “–this ass –” A shameless, confident squeeze of both glutes. “–that neck.”  

Now two hands were busy buckling something onto his neck, leather, like he was livestock or a slave ready for sale at auction. His heart leapt with fresh horror at his new degradation. Fresh horror, and surprise when he was suddenly jerked backwards and up by his neck on some sort of leash, he gathered. He strained at the end of the line, gasping against the unforgiving collar for air, the leather transformed into iron in the Indian’s grip.

A gentle cooing behind him now. “Ahhh, pet, _this_ is what you were born for. You were made to be under me. This is your destiny.” Some shuffling sounds, fabric or perhaps skins being rearranged; then a low, wet slapping Tanglewood could instantly place, sending his heart careening into the prison of his broad chest at thrice the speed.

This would be it. His rose-colored visions of soft, hazy coupling, the lithe nude form of his soul mate beneath him, face turned openly to his, begging, _yearning_ to be touched, to be prepared, to be entered….

Here. Now. THIS would be his fate, like the man said. A wet, insistent prod against him, careless foot kicked his stance wider, leash pulled back to full control without an inch of mercy. His vision feathered further and further away at the margins with every extra moment the collar bit his throat. His entire body rigid, stock-still, the awareness that this would doubtless hurt, would not only hurt, would near- _rip him apart,_ poured into him, as if that could repel the cruel intruder about to rob him of the last bits of his humanity.

The tip breached his first ring of muscle –

Black Sheep breathed something in his own tongue –

Tanglewood squeezed his eyes shut against the burn of fresh tears –

–and the world _EXPLODED,_ the sudden roar of a longrifle discharge tearing through the unholy stillness of the night.

*

“Yeaaaah!!!” Nagisa and Gou yell together, somehow having reached this spot at the same time. While reading their comfy chairs have all migrated closer and closer together, to the point that they’re now clustered in a little clot at the end of the table, Nagisa and Gou slightly ahead of him with their legs up on the table (Nagisa splayed, Gou neatly crossed). Their hands are firmly clutched together like parents waiting for news of their accident-prone kid in the emergency room.

Rei, a little behind them, is trying to actually _work_ on this thing following along with the paper galley and a red pen – he can’t turn off the compulsion for no meeting to be a complete waste. But he hasn’t even looked down at it for pages, his teammates’ sudden outburst breaking him out of some kind of trance, sitting at the edge of his seat wringing his hands in his lap and almost ready to scream something himself before they beat him to it.

“Oh. My. GOD,” Gou finally says, all three of them so keyed up they’re compelled to blow off some tension together now that they have a feeling not all may be lost for Tanglewood.

“Not too shabby, guys, huh?” Nagisa chucks a handful of M&Ms in his mouth gleefully and seems so excited he lobs a few at Rei. They bounce sadly off his glasses and are lost under the table. Rei is still so affected he doesn’t even notice. “Ya know though, methinks the gent doth protest too much.” He waggles his eyebrows madly.

Rei levels a Look at him. “First, it’s ‘the gent doth protest too much, methinks.’ Second, are you really insinuating our hero’s a crybaby for getting captured and sadistically tortured and almost –” Rei glances up on the screen to read ahead, to a hearty _whack_ on the thigh from Gou. “ _Ouch!_ Apologies, Gou-san. You’re thinking rape is a good time then, dear?”

Nagisa swivels in his chair and runs his sock-foot deftly up Rei’s crotch, to a gasp and frantic leg-cross. “Mmmm, only between consenting adults, hon.” He sucks on his pinky finger meaningfully as he stares Rei down.

Gou’s scoff is a thing of scornful beauty. “Holy shit, ladies. Get a room, alright? _I_ can’t believe we aren’t talking about the coolest part of this whole thing.”

They both look at her, genuinely confused. “What? The chance that Tanglewood’ll be nude for another few chaps?” Nagisa asks.

“ _NO._ The fact that they wrote about me!” She bounces delightedly in her chair, almost percolating. “I’m Kate! It’s so obvious! I’m clearly going to be the most-awesome character in the whole shebang.”

Rei pushes his frames up thoughtfully. “You must’ve made quite the impression on Haruka!”

“I _knew_ I liked him.”

This time the M&Ms fly her way with no more accuracy. She gets a thoughtful look too. “You know what’s really odd… The other lead, this little dashing Davey Crockett, Rob Miller? I would swear on a stack of Bibles that’s my brother.”

Rei trades a perplexed look with Nagisa. “Do they KNOW your brother? I’ve never heard either of ‘em talk about him, and if they knew him, they’d talk about him, if you know what I mean,” Nagisa says with unnecessary insinuation.

“No, I would _also_ swear on that same stack that they haven’t met, ‘cause believe me my brother would’ve talked my ear off about either one of those guys. Boy has to be the most talkative thing in the world. And they’d be RIGHT up his alley. So to speak.” Nagisa snorts gleefully. Rei knows that perverted double-entendres are one of his husband’s (many) very favorite things.

“Well! I’m not sure about you, but I am more than ready to find out what in the hell will happen to our beautiful hero,” Rei redirects. He means it.

Nagisa sighs dreamily. “…he IS beautiful, Rei-chan.”

“Almost pretty enough to turn me straight,” Gou agrees.

*

Tanglewood screamed, all the fear and the unknown of the last day and night boiling out of his damaged throat and ears singing with the aftershock of the blast. Something hot and heavily wet fell against his back, and he screamed again. It traveled down his back in a long trail, his neck pulling back painfully when the leash reached its end, then suddenly he could breathe as his captor must have released him.

He vaguely heard alarmed calls behind him – the two guards. Yet they sounded so far away, and Tanglewood hung his head over the hitching post, taking a single gulp of air –

–and the night cracked apart again, two explosions this time immediately following each other, and the guards were silent. Tanglewood heard faint raised voices somewhere behind him – the settlement – then a hand was gently but insistently pulling his chin up.

To meet red, red eyes.

“We’re here to rescue you, sir,” the young woman whispered intently before leaping over to saw at his ropes, making quick work and dropping a useless arm to point at the ground. She was already working on his other one.

He could have asked who she was, who had taken out his captors so brutally, what they wanted with him, if they wanted to hurt him.

Instead, he hung bonelessly against the post – all strength vanished – whispering “thank you, thank you, thank you…”

Freed from his bonds, she ducked under and tucked her head under one of his arms and wrapped a firm slender arm around his naked waist. She pivoted them swiftly away from the post, and that’s when he saw it –

The awkwardly sprawled body at their feet could not have possibly been the monstrous, powerful being that was terrorizing him bare moments ago. Was in the first stages of taking what passed for his male virginity. Was prepared to keep him as a toy for the rest of his days.

The corpse beneath them was still recognizable as the handsome Indian, with the horrific addition of two ragged holes piercing his forehead and the top of his head. Blood oozed over his still face in a curtain. Tanglewood’s eyes swept the body and before he could stop them he was considering the fleshy tool that almost ruined him, a strange detachment settling over him. The woman glanced pointedly up at him, face a picture of sadness, and began leading them away towards the surrounding woods as quickly as she could manage.

But he was too big, with legs that refused to function, with a white blanket settling over his brain, and he was toppling forward into all that white.

***

“We have got to _move,_ ” Rob hissed as soon as the big man – the big, _beautiful, naked_ man, his brain kept insisting – was safely lashed into the stretcher they had quickly put together while waiting for dark today. They knew their only chance in hell at success in this insane rescue attempt was hitting at dark, the regular daytime activity of the village put on high-alert and –interest by the arrival of the prisoners. A suicide mission, essentially – and Rob didn’t feel like killing himself for anyone, no matter how perfectly symmetric their muscles were marching down their bare chest, or how softly their head rolled to the side against the birch-bark of the stretcher, or how the sight of the leather collar and leash around their neck awakened some foreign feeling in him, scalding and furious and all-consuming…and possessive…

Kate and Stephen worked swiftly. They understood the sheer gravity of the situation, he could read in their uncharacteristic silence and the grim line of his sister’s lips and his friend’s fierce scowl. Kate had barely snagged-down the last knot at the unconscious man’s feet and Stephen was crouching at the head, impatiently waiting for Rob to take the rear. It was a shame they couldn’t make a travois; man this size, it was going to be hard-going to handle his weight, especially given Rob’s smaller stature. But they couldn’t afford the obvious trail that a rescue sled would leave, taking a gang of Huron intent on blood-justice right to their door… No, they had to bear the weight and do whatever they could to minimize their footprint on the trail.

They set off into the underbrush at a punishing clip, wordless, their only sounds their labored breathing and the soft beat of the guns against the men’s backs and the rustle of their feet against the leaves. The night was disorientingly dark even out in that…horrible clearing; here deep in the thick embrace of the pine and hemlock and maple and beech, the darkness was almost complete, only broken by birch trunks seeming to hover like skinny ghosts. It was lucky they were such good trackers, making note that day as they pursued the prisoner party of key features and landmarks along the way. Tempting as it was to stick to the party’s big, glaringly-obvious wagon-track, that would make them a hand-delivered target.

Yet as they hurried, Rob insisting on taking the rear, he trained his keen ear behind them…and would swear to whatever God there might be that no one was in pursuit. Maybe they really did execute his “extraction” plan with the perfect element of surprise. Maybe this chief, or whatever the role of the sadistic, sick man, held such an iron grip on the village that taking him down left his people feeling more liberated than assaulted. Maybe when he picked such a hidden spot to have his little “fun,” he was signing his own death warrant without even knowing it by tucking them away from help.

That scene…

Rob glanced down constantly as they moved, almost despite himself and even through the darkness, the slack body lolling slightly from side to side with each step (though not much as Kate’s lashes were good and tight). Large, grass-stained feet, somehow graceful in the taper of the heel, the spread of the ball, the well-formed toes. Calves and thighs…absolutely _roped_ with hidden muscle. This man was _strong._ Narrow hips framing a generous, thick cock, resting between those legs. Rob kept forgetting to look back up at the trail every time he got to that part. Quiet, subtle ripples across his abdomen and up the rise of his chest and wide shoulders. That face, cloaked in too much shadow for Rob to look at properly.

And stealing glances down at the man, his memory keeps insisting on shoving _that scene_ up for his inspection. It was at some distance, he and Stephen hiding behind trees ringing the clearing as Kate crept close, a natural at stealth attacks. That didn’t make it any less horrifying. Or…. Any less…something else. Seeing this giant naked for the first time – it was like the rest of the world faded away to nothing, and he just shone, shone, _shone_ like the fucking Angel Gabriel, or something. And his total – sheepishness? Surrender? – as the two braves shoved him around like he was a life-sized doll, as they lashed him to that damn post, in the most perversely submissive pose…

It _did things_ to him. And that shamed him. Rob was very familiar with the wide range of creatively debased things people liked to do to each other; he had heard many stories and had witnessed certain things he would trade the little worldly possessions he had to forget. He had even done a few of them. This, though; this slow, deliberate degradation, the Huron’s understandable but highly-unusual reluctance to beat or otherwise mark the beautiful man, _that collar, that leash…_ These things were not supposed to seize him where he hid in the dark, part his lips against their will, draw his breath out in shallow pants, kick his heartbeat up, give him instant wood before he hardly knew what was happening. Throbbing, pulsing; his cock wouldn’t be denied, and while they waited for their moment, while Kate crept into place, while the sadist choked the man to a dangerous degree and roughly stroked himself, preparing to thrust in, to ruin him, Rob reached into his deerskin trousers…

…seized his cock without thinking…

…worked himself furiously, no finesse, no little touches or teases like he usually enjoyed, just the sort of pounding he imagined himself doing _to that man_ against that post, grunting mercilessly against his shoulder with one fist a vice around his cock so he couldn’t come, other hand controlling the leash, the man’s voice rough and strained and struggling yet _so beautiful_ as he tried to breathe through the sensations assaulting him…

…and came, violently, into the leaves, then turned away and threw up everything in his stomach.

Rob was able to shove his thoughts to the side during the kills, the rescue, the escape; but somehow, the tense monotony of the escape back to their cabin called them all up again, and the only thing in his field of vision kept reminding him. He had no idea what the experience meant, what the feelings were telling him, only that they were wrong, they were _sick,_ and he needed to tamp them as far down inside himself as he could.

*

Silence. Total, pin-dropping, could-cut-with-a-knife silence. A burst of muffled laughter followed by an animated response floats in from outside, but the three continue to gaze transfixed for a few long moments at the cursor flashing at the bottom of the last page.

“….um, wow.” Gou’s feels like SOMEONE had to say _something,_ insufficiently lame as it was for what they all just read. She also feels a suspicious flush across both cheeks and creeping down all the way past her collar. She also may feel a certain familiar dampness in her boy-shorts.

WHICH, as she thinks of it, is creepy as hell. She isn’t bothered by the rapey bit, the light BDSM, the breath-play, the voyeurism, the masturbation (though she’s guessing they didn’t package it all that way in 1750-whatever). Actually, all of that was almost shockingly hot – she can see it all in Technicolor. The problem is who she can see doing this stuff. The watching and jacking-off bits, more specifically. And that is just NOT right to enjoy seeing her _brother,_ for God’s sake, doing that stuff.

She wonders what she’ll have to be even more embarrassed about when (if) _her_ character gets some.

The continued silence after she’s through processing all of this is more than a lot suspicious given the constant yadda-yadda of her beloved friends-and-coworkers next to her. She glances over to them, to find Nagisa’s graduated to a hand on his husband’s crotch now, a single finger travelling up and down deliberately. Rei’s got a hand on Nagisa’s shoulder like he’s bracing himself, and they’re both staring at the screen with zombie-creepy intensity.

She sighs, but it’s faintly indulgent. “Again, I’d tell you guys to get a room, but hey, looks like you already did. Good planning, actually.” She winks as she stands, grabbing her bag and sashaying to the door.

“Enjoy!” she sends back over her shoulder before securely closing it behind her.

***

SO!

Rei and Nagisa have figured out, um, sharing the editing work on this particular novel might have certain benefits for their sex life :)

Hopefully the back-and-forth wasn’t too whiplash-y and the shit that happened to Our Poor Not-Mako wasn’t either too nasty or not nasty enough (haha you can never please everyone!).

It is All About Gou (AAG). And her [kick-ass boots](http://www.labeshops.com/image/cache/data/shoes/DEMONIA/ranger302-pu-black-combat-boots-600x600.jpg). Had a pair like it and don’t think I ever got so many compliments on my feet in my life :D

OH! And by request, here’s a [mental image for Black Sheep](https://ericschweigfan.files.wordpress.com/2011/09/the-broken-chain-photo-still-death-of-seth-32.jpg), if you do the whole mental image thing. (It’s the hot hot HOT Inuit actor Eric Schweig who actually played Daniel Day-Lewis’ very awesome Mohican brother from another mother in the movie, and NOT the awesome Cherokee actor Wes Studi who played the movie’s badass villain, Magua. So basically I traded him in for a hotter model for your potential fantasy needs. I am human trash.)

And! Random factoid, “Black Sheep” is an actual Huron name off a gravestone from the 1800s. Don’t say I don’t do my research (AHAHAHAHAHA…)


	11. Many meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few firsts this chap, with Sou getting POV time and – ta-da! – the real in-the-flesh Rin showing up. A (non-physical non-monetary :/) prize awaits the 1st person who can guess his career-of-choice and who he brought home from work ;D

They take Wednesday off, Haru arguing the mind is a living organism and if they keep pounding theirs without a break they’ll probably end up like Jack Nicholson at the end of _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest._ He’s a combination of deeply sad and haughtily incredulous when Yamazaki’s silent on the other end of the line. He considers explaining the scene or just giving up with some nasty remark about cultural illiteracy, and goes for a compromise.

“Lobotomized. We’ll end up lobotomized.”

The increasingly-familiar sound of Yamazaki’s shuffling chuckle comes through the line. “That makes a weird kind of sense. Coulda just said we needed a rest day, but okay. Let’s pick up again on Thursday.” Haru is mildly shocked at the big man’s acquiescence. He hears the pop-snick of a can being opened and idly wonders what it is; can’t be pop, the guy’s body is a temple…he thinks. Too early for beer and he’s a wine snob anyway. Then he gets it – a fancy-ass mineral water full of added antioxidants and guarine and with a goji berry waved over it, or something. He snorts.

“Glad I could bring you joy, Nanase. Even if I never have a clue what about. It’s my reason for living.” A longish pause; Haru figures he’s taking a pull off his fancy-ass mystery drink. “So….what are you doing today then, if we aren’t writing?”

Haru is momentarily an ice sculpture as he struggles to process the implications and purpose of the sentence, being basically crap at these kinds of light breezy social exchanges that seem to come so easily to, oh, everyone else. Was Yamazaki asking him out? Wanting to go actually do something (or stay in and do something)? Was that more of a subtle booty-call? Haru has no goddamn idea.

And then there was the very real possibility he was just being nice. You know, _making conversation._ The thing human beings have liked doing for thousands of years to get to know each other and find out stuff. Again, Haru has no goddamn idea and decides disclosure is helpful in these situations.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Whoa! Damn, son, no need to get all secretive.” Another one of those pauses. Haru’s starting to get suspicious. “You gonna go out and try out all the new skills I’ve taught you?” Voice halfway between teasing and … something else. Threatening?

“Oh, fuck you, Yamazaki. It’d be a short visit.” And he thumbs Disconnect.

*

It’s been a week since Kisumi.

A week that he never could’ve expected. A completely bizarre week. A week packed-full – TOO-full – of new, new, in Haru’s face _new._ So new he isn’t sure who he is exactly anymore. Doesn’t even know if he completely understands himself anymore.

Kisumi wasn’t new. Kisumi was faithful, was long-term, was _understood._ Kisumi was a lot of things and as he sits at his favorite coffee shop and pulls his battered and decal-ed laptop out, he’s possessed by uniquely-Kisumi feelings, wry and sweet and dirty and hilarious and dumb and … intimate. And a face arises on his screen, as it slowly boots up; those eyes, those eyes, those lavender eyes (his eyes are fucking _lavender - !_ ); the candy-colored hair swooping into his eyes, getting in their way. The smiles – the big dumb grin, the confident smirk at his own jokes, the softest smallest one. Haru feels that last one somewhere in his throat, behind his breastbone.

But it’s been a week. He basically left the guy high and dry then vanished off the planet … or off the Net anyway, which for their LD-non-R may as well be the same thing. Haru is absolutely, to his core sure Kisumi will at least be hurt. Maybe confused. He doesn’t think the guy has it in him to _hate_ him (he doesn’t know if Kisumi can ever really hate _anyone,_ at least as far as he knows him) but he could be wrong. Hell, he may not even _really_ know him – he could be seething with molten hatred for Haru right at this moment in New York. Yet another handicap of their LD-non-R.

So Haru’s here at his fave coffee shop – green-tea smoothie at his right hand, giant old-school-DJ-style headphones on, Laika and the Cosmonauts surfing away in his head to cut his anxiety – because he’s afraid. And here in this public place there’s no way he can take a Skype call, were one to come in. Iron-clad alibi. Haru hates when he operates like a bit-part asshole criminal on _Law & Order _but it’s something he has a gift for, when needed.

He gingerly launches tumblr and trains his eyes down, rigidly looking for the Followers link. He is _not_ going to look at his Inbox icon, he’s _not,_ nope, _no way –_

Until he is. Just staring at it, at the friendly-looking envelope with the little square saying “42”.

He’s had _42_ new messages over the last week.

And he’s about 98.9999% sure most if not all are from Kisumi. He isn’t the most-active poster and chatter and tagger, with the number of people he regularly corresponds with fitting on one hand. What the hell could Kisumi have said 20 or 30 or 40 times?? How did the notes progress? Did they start out “Hey Haru, guess that call ended abruptly huh” and go to “Gee honey, it’d sure be nice to hear back, if it’s not too much trouble” and finally end up somewhere along the lines of “YOU FUCKING SON OF A COCKSUCKING SLUTTY FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING, I HOPE YOUR COCK GETS BIT OFF BY A DOLPHIN, YOU FLAKY WATERY FUCK.”

Or something.

Regardless, seeing that 42 makes it even more certain he won’t be opening the Inbox anytime soon and reading what Kisumi had to say. The weight of his flight away from one thing – and confused staggering, flailing, falling into another thing without even realizing it with Yamazaki – hits him as he stares at the envelope, and he feels low. Truly shitty.

He doesn’t realize just how long he’d been staring when a light touch on his arm startles him. He pulls off his headphones (a crazy rave-up spilling out) and looks up at a young woman who stands over him a little shyly, holding a few plates and smiling. The barista. He just waits expectantly for what she wants and is somehow amused when she gives his particularly-crazy bedhead, his plum boat neck long-sleeved tee (a great find from the women’s section) and classic plaid golf slacks a quick and almost compulsive once-over.

“Is there anything I can get you? Top-off your smoothie? The flourless chocolate torte is fantastic.” A definite blush hitting her round cheeks now. Haru appreciates her effort even if she’s not only barking up the wrong tree but has moved on to climbing it.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

She does this weird thing with her face then; it starts from her big brown eyes, and spreads out, and the whole thing just sorta _melts_. She also grabs on his forearm and squeezes. Haru is instantly alarmed.

“That’s why I came over, actually; you don’t _seem_ fine. Please pardon me, but I was watching you looking at your laptop, and you had a look on your face like you’d just lost your last friend. You looked like you could use a little cheering up, even if it’s just chocolate.”

Haru almost laughs hysterically at the perfect fiction set-up he’s just experienced. What ego, to assume any human contact is someone wanting to jump his bones, even though anyone with halfway-decent gaydar should be able to peg him immediately. Apparently this is what losing his virginity has got him: turned him into an arrogant and vaguely pathetic dick. Bonus, one who attracts charity.

He ends up taking her up on the smoothie refill and after she goes back to her post – good deed for the day done – he faces his laptop with new resolve. He ignores the Inbox icon and clicks on Kisumi’s blog instead…

…to be absolutely hit, melancholy and sweetness fighting it out for top reaction in his gut, by the familiarity and recognition of what he sees. Kisumi has been posting an avalanche of things – photos, articles, GIFs, text posts, quirky comics – that are united by their Haruness. An article (studded with mouth-watering pics) counting down the 20 best waterfalls in Japan. A stirring GIF of Kosuke Hagino’s gold-medal finish in the 400m individual medley at the Tokyo games. Audio posts of his favorite bands – some of the more obscure ones are bewildering to him; he has no idea how Kisumi remembered or even knew he loved them. Links to YouTube – he clicks one and gets a new version of _The Big Lebowski_ which ONLY uses the word “fuck” (292 of them, to be exact) which is appealing on just about every level. Mermaid stuff. MerMAN stuff. And on, and on, and Haru’s eyes feel shellacked open.

There are a generous number of porn GIFs and photos where at least one participant is slight, black-haired, and gorgeous. A few of these pair him with a larger, built man with a shock of light hair, and seeing these, seeing his stand-in bent in half by Kisumi’s, his legs on Kisumi’s shoulders while the larger man fucks him energetically… Haru feels the violent attack of a hectic flush that makes it past the neck of his boat neck.

Every post that particularly calls to Haru is tagged _#haru <333._

Haru’s cursor darts up to Kisu’s Ask button (“askmeaskmeASKMEEEE”) before he knows he’s doing it. So he’s going in through the out-door, as it were. He shuts off the part of his brain compelled to tear himself apart and begins typing without thinking about it.

_Kisumi – it’s Haru, finally. Sorry to be out of touch this long & hope you’re OK. This new project has been sort of kicking my ass, pretty intense. But it’s good – I think you’ll like it. thank you for all the posts._

He hesitates for a moment (what the fuck is he really doing here anyway??) and quickly adds

_They’re beautiful. esp the ones of the little black haired guy and the big light haired guy._

And clicks “Ask.”

*

Sousuke smashes the racquetball against the far wall with way too much force. No way is Ryuugazaki getting this one. He lumbers to the side, ready for the triumphant finale and the fist-pump and maybe an “in-your-FACE, Ryuugazaki” only if he’s feeling particularly aggressive (which, OH yes, he is today…) and the little victory strut that never fails to make him feel good.

 _–_ and he’s staring, mouth open, at the textbook-perfect Olympic-worthy return the smaller guy executes, placing the little ball with sniper-scary skill in a corner that sends it rebounding hopelessly over Sousuke’s head. Game over.

Sousuke’s shaking his head in some kind of honest awe at his editor. “Why’ve you been holding out on me, Ryuugazaki? You are fantastic on a racquetball court.” He crosses over and claps him firmly on the shoulder.

Ryuugazaki does a _pshaw!_ thing with a hand but seems deeply pleased. “Thank you! I wish I had more opportunity to play, to be honest. This editing thing is more than a full-time job, I’m afraid. If _people_ would just _learn_ to _write properly_ the FIRST time around….” He gets a narrow, almost scary look on his face that Sousuke thinks he’s seen on assassins in various spy-movies. He smirks. Editors, Jesus. Buncha control-freaks.

The bespectacled man suddenly looks alarmed and flails his hands as he and Sousuke head towards the door of the racquetball court. “Of course! Of course, I’m excluding you from among ‘those people’, Yamazaki-san! Your work is in amazing shape when it gets to me. I hardly have anything to do at all. Makes me wish _all_ our clients were like you.” They stop at the lockers and swing them open. Sousuke’s yanking his sweat-soaked polo off immediately. “Oh! That would leave me with nothing to do, so I suppose it’s good they aren’t all like you. Job security.” He lets out his over-the-top laugh.

Sousuke smirks as he pulls down his nylon gym shorts. “Cute, Ryuugazaki. No, that’s just me. I can’t stand handing over something that’s subpar – at least not in a way that I can see. It pushes all my buttons.” The blue-haired man is seeming to listen intently as he also undresses, revealing his own well-muscled, pale, hot body. He’s sure the editor’s a jock like him based on a body like that; he sort of looks like track & field, actually. But he knows for a fact the man’s a lifelong swimmer too, stretching all the way back to high-school at least…

“So…so, you used to swim with Nanase? In grade school, was it?” he asks casually, catching the big white club towel as the editor tosses it to him. They fall into step on the way to the showers. Ryuugazaki’s looking at him funny, searchingly, like he’s trying to figure something out but Sousuke’s not sure what. Some part of his brain goes on standby alert.

“Oh, no! No, not as early as grade school; I didn’t go to grade school with him and Nagisa-kun. High-school. We had a, I guess you’d call it a ‘fun-club.’ We tried so very hard to turn it into a real team, but couldn’t scare-up enough members.” They hang their towels and turn on adjacent showerheads. Ryuugazaki sighs in pleasure as the hot water hits his skin, closing his eyes with a big smile on his face; Sousuke takes the opportunity to stare at him and thinks how attractive he is without the severe red glasses, how much softer. How much he looks like someone in particular. “Oh, it was actually very funny. I studied-up on the principles of psychological manipulation to try to coerce people in.”

Sousuke slurps some water and looks hard at the editor. “God. That’s disturbing. Did it work?”

His crazy-happy laugh again. “Not in the least! We just got in trouble for moving everything in the hallway and homeroom half a meter to the left away from our recruitment posters.” He shook his head. “I was a know-it-all little shit in high school, to be honest – pardon my French…”

“Pardoned.” Sousuke lathers his chest liberally with his favorite body-wash, the one from some tree-hugger American company so natural he could chug the bottle now with no ill-effects and that makes his whole body smell like a north-woods forest and tingle deliciously. He likes it. Especially after working up a hard sweat. The association of working up a hard sweat leads inevitably to … someone in particular … and he thinks, _hard,_ about whether he should ask Ryuugazaki about him. What will that sound like? What would he think…?

Fuck it.

“So…what was Nanase like in high school? As much of an insufferable pain in the ass as he is today, or even worse?”

The editor’s pretty purple eyes get that suspicious gleam to them again and he smiles fondly as he pours therapeutic conditioning shampoo into a palm. “Ah, Haruka… Let’s just say high school with Haruka was ‘interesting.’” Air-quotes, shampoo safely dumped on his head. “Do you recall at one of our meetings when he got mad and basically yelled ‘Fuck the mainstream’ at me?”

Sousuke remembers it a little too well. He just gives a side-smirk as he raises one armpit then the other to rinse in the steaming spray.

“Well, high-school Nanase Haruka could probably be summed up as ‘Fuck EVERYONE.’” Ryuugazaki shakes his head, eyes simultaneously darkly amused, far away in memory, and somehow sad. A lot of backstory in that look. Sousuke suddenly wonders if he was ever involved with Nanase. He wouldn’t be surprised – two intense guys, pretty weird, the obvious almost-adoring looks he gives Nanase… He just wonders.

“It was like his personal goal every day was to piss as many people off as he could. Teachers, principal, other students, it didn’t matter. He almost always succeeded. And he didn’t _try_ to, either; that was the strangest part. It was just his total, ah, lack of caring what anyone thought of him. That plus his negative-levels of social skills.” Now Ryuugazaki’s look is simpler, just sadness in his eyes.

Sousuke’s smile this time is small, out of respect to the shift in mood. “Hmmm. That surprises me not a damn bit. What gives? He have some weird abusive home life, or something?” Nanase calling his parents jerks and saying they basically abandoned him echoes in his mind.

“You know, you’re not far off. They were rigid and unforgiving and made it _very_ clear what Haruka could do with his life to be okay in their eyes, and he wasn’t it.” The editor cranks off his water viciously and doesn’t make a move to leave. “And that was just their ‘active’ bad parenting. Before they left him to move to Tokyo when he was 12 and their ‘passive’ bad parenting started.”

Sousuke turns his own water off. “Okay, hold on – so he lived alone?? That can’t be legal!”

Ryuugazaki tosses him his towel again, and wraps his own firmly around his defined hips. “Oh, he had someone – his sweet grandmother – for a while. Until she died two years later and instead of figuring something else out his parents allowed a 14-year-old – a grieving, social-misfit 14-year-old – to live alone, rattling around in that empty old house in Iwatobi.” His face spells murder.

Sousuke is suddenly compelled to pull him onto a nearby bench, even though they’re just in the club towels yet. Again: fuck it.

“A couple of assholes, to do that to a lost kid who needed help. No _wonder_ he’s the way he is – incapable of taking himself or anything else seriously.” And why he seems to have such trouble sharing himself, Sousuke thinks but doesn’t say. “A shit-childhood and –adolescence like that, I think I’d be rolling out any defense mechanism in my toolkit.”

But Ryuugazaki’s smiling again, that somehow-knowing smile, and Sousuke’s inner-editor perks up. “Oh, but it seems like he’s finally taking SOMETHING seriously, hmmm?” He leans over and squeezes Sousuke’s hand intimately where it hangs between his knees. The bigger man freezes – did Nanase spill? He didn’t seem the type. Actually, Sousuke would put the odds of blabbing about their sexcapades on him before the little guy. But there it was, and he felt the lightest sweat begin on his hairline.

The silence stretching past social protocols, Sousuke stiffly offers, “What would that be?”

Ryuugazaki’s nutso laugh again, so sudden he jumps. “The project! _Brohicans!_ We’ve had a team-review of chapters one and two and Yamazaki-san, I must tell you –” He leans in closer and his eyes are no-joke- _sparkling._ Sousuke feels suddenly sick in the wave of relief mixed with humor at the man’s enthusiasm – which is really sort of cute – mixed with something else, some kind of undefined disappointment. “Everyone is in agreement at certain, ah, amazing _qualities_ already present. I can’t remember the last time an author got me a _treatment_ three days after starting, much less a few _chapters,_ let alone chapters of that quality! They’re beautiful!” The eyes have progressed to shining. Sousuke pats Ryuugazaki’s hand with his free one and puts it back on the editor’s bare knee.

“Really, what is your secret?? We’ve talked about it and can’t figure it out! I would anticipate it’s the old standby of ‘the whole is other than the sum of its parts,’ which in Gestalt psychology is actually often mistranslated as ‘the whole is GREATER than the sum of its parts’ –”

“Keep it simple for me, Ryuugazaki.”

He clears his throat awkwardly. “Yes, I’m sorry, I just get so excited about this concept. So maybe putting you together with Nanase… well, you have your style and body of work, and he _definitely_ has his, and maybe when you both work together, something new happens.”

Sousuke stares at him. “’New’?”

“Yes! Meaning, something that is _different_ than what either of you do and has never been seen before, and is fresh and grabs people. You should’ve seen the editing suite as we all reviewed the last chapter. All that action, suspense, we could hardly stay in our seats!”

“Good.”

“And…that’s not all that got us, ah, stirred up.” He looks so flushed Sousuke’d be worried for his health if he didn’t have an idea what he was going to say, and takes evasive action by casually getting up and heading for the lockers. The editor jumps up and joins him. “Ah, the sex so far has been especially, shall we say, affecting.” An older guy looks them over curiously as they hurry past. Sousuke gives him a hard stare back. “And there actually hasn’t been as _much_ of it so far as in your other stuff, but the encounters and descriptions have been…”

“Beautiful?” Sousuke cracks.

“Yes!! Absolutely! It’s really something! What would you say is going on there?” He turns a seemingly guileless look at Sousuke but he’s no fool. The bigger man buries his head in his locker then something comes to mind, and he comes out smiling.

“Well, I’ve learned from Nanase that writing – the good stuff – is a pretty non-verbal process, so I suppose I can’t tell you.” He spreads his hands. “Sorry.”

*

It takes all of ten minutes of Haru lolling in the stupid-making glorious mineral-y heat of the open-air rotenburo for Nagisa and Gou to tag-team him on Yamazaki.

Gou – as she insisted he call her, and was practically beside herself with delight when he parroted back a very particular pronunciation that she preferred – knew of some mega-onsen in Tokyo Dome City that had a perplexing array of watery things they could do. As a bonus for unconventional and marginal folks like himself (or just shift-workers) it was open all night, too, though he doubted they’d make it that long. Haru was practically falling asleep already and the grand total of his activities today included the oh-so-cordial phone chat with Yamazaki and the trip to the coffee shop, which made no sense. He blamed the water.

“You can pretend you’re asleep, Haru- _chan,_ but we know better.” Nagisa floats into his lap and tweaks one of his nipples, hard. He shoots up, swearing and trying to throw the blond off but he has mad counter-offensive skills and clings onto Haru like a lemur. Not an ounce of shame or even embarrassment at the disturbed open-mouthed stares they were already collecting. Haru understands.

They lower back into the steaming water as a unit and Nagisa obligingly releases him to take a place next to him against the wall. “No one can deny me!” he crows.

Gou scoffs from her spot sitting on the rocks, taking a breather while she dangles her calves in the water. “My GOD, Nagisa. Do you really need to jump through so many hoops just to cop a feel of one of your friends? I thought you gay guys were supposed to be all free-love or something. Lame.”

Haru sinks deeply into the water and dunks his hair. “He’s afraid of what Rei will do if he catches us so he takes a chance whenever he can. Although we sorta got all our experimentation out together in 8th grade.”

Nagisa gapes at him speechlessly while Gou throws her head back and brays a totally ugly – and wonderful – laugh up at the inky sky. “Ahhhh, Haru, _where_ have you been all my life? Someone who can stand up to Hazuki’s mouth? Can you please just come to work with us at ReadFree every day?”

Nagisa has his deeply devious look on (aka the one that looks like he’s about to sing in the choir or maybe sell fundraising candy door-to-door, while he simultaneously robs you blind). “Oh, Gou-chan, but he can’t do that, _remember_? Haru’s a little busy already spending lots… and lots… and LOTS of time with a certain tall, dark, ripped, chiseled, handsome, mysterious –”

“Writing partner.”

Gou and Nagisa shoot a look at each other over his head so substantial, he has his eyes flickering closed staring up at the sky and _he_ can see it. Handoff to Gou. “Sooo….Haru, I heard you had a very unproductive time trying to write last Saturday at the offices, which I’m so sorry for!” Haru shrugs noncommittally. “Well, and I heard it was because of _these_ jokers here –” She nails Nagisa with a glare and he whistles and looks away. “Anyway. Sounds like Sou-chan asked you to his place. So, spill – how was it?”

Haru’s giggling helplessly over the “Sou-chan” – he wonders if Yamazaki knows his publisher’s Chief Financial Officer calls him that, and the name itself is so delightful he just keeps bubbling his little soundless laughs into the water. It inserts an image of a teeny-tiny Kindergartener-Yamazaki into his head, scared on his first day of school and maybe with his home address pinned on his shirt in case he gets lost. Now he’s snorting.

Gou cocks her head at him. “That funny, huh? I wouldn’t think a laughing jag is the first reaction to ANYTHING Yamazaki, but okay.”

Nagisa’s back in his face. “Come on, Haru. We KNOW that’s where you went. Me and Rei are looking for redecoration ideas and that guy’s a walking design spread. Share! C’mon! It isn’t nice not to share!” He’s rubbing his head on Haru’s shoulder now, just like in high school, again never minding the completely public setting. Haru assumes this is a totally natural regression to his friend’s old persuasion tactics because it’s him; he hopes to holy-hell this isn’t how he does negotiations in general.

“Eh. It’s an apartment. Tables. Couches. Chairs. There may or may not have been some windows. Sorry, you’re asking the wrong guy. You know I don’t give a shit about any of that stuff.”

There’s some kind of swift communication and Haru’s shoved into the wall by four small hands – gently, “playfully,” oh they’re doing this just under the threshold of call-the-cop behavior and Haru’s impressed. Two small, elvishly-attractive, stony, totally determined faces hover before his and now there is truly no escape. Surprisingly, Gou takes the lead. She _does_ seem like the natural-manager type.

“Okay, Haru. We did a group review of what you and Sousuke have done so far. All that shameless body-worship. All that thick sexual tension. The capture. The light BDSM. Breathplay. Attempted rape. Voyeurism. Deeply-awkward jacking-off. Big-time conflicted feelings.”

“…A little early for making Christmas lists, but sounds good to me,” Haru deadpans.

A look again between the two – _does he DO this? – oh, YES –_ and Gou tries again.

“Soooo…you may think, standard stuff for the sort of smut we traffic in. But it’s the way you guys are writing it; it is so, SO hot.” Nagisa’s nodding madly in agreement. “Total TMI here, but let’s just say this girl was wishing she’d brought a change of clothes to work after reading that. Sorry. And it’s weird, but just a feeling – even if you weren’t explicitly talking about sex, I get the feeling that whatever you _were_ writing about would be sexy as all hell. Even if it was an extended blister-treatment scene or something.”

“That’s in Chapter 3.”

“ANYway, you little rascal. We just know: that level of hot doesn’t come from nowhere.” She takes a big breath. “You and Sousuke…you’re having sex, aren’t you?” Nagisa’s watching him so intently Haru thinks he might be able to count his eyelashes. Haru holds his poker-face on with both metaphoric hands. He isn’t even sure why they can’t find out, beyond the glaring blond reason right in front of him squeezing his shoulder with weird insistence. He doesn’t know why it would be so bad for Nagisa to find out. Maybe he’s just waiting for a sign from the universe for the time to be right.

He looks (hopefully) casually at them both. “I’m actually insulted. Do you think my imagination is so lame I have to go out and do everything I write about? Do I have to die when my characters do?” Oops…he hears anger creeping into his voice and backs it off. “And Yamazaki? Come on. Can you think of a guy that’s more of a polar opposite than me? The guy’s totally loaded, and you know I verbally abuse rich assholes, Nagisa. He’s Mr. Type-A, and I’m like maybe Type-Q. If that. He’s all up in everyone’s face trying to tell them how to live their lives, and that kind of thing makes me sick. He’s basically perfect, and I’m a total screw-up. Right?”

He tried to be light-hearted and fails again. And worse, Gou and Nagisa are staring at him so very meaningfully, for a long moment, before turning confirmatorily to each other.

“Opposites attract, Nagisa,” Gou says gravely.

“Right??”

Haru dunks himself underwater.

*

It takes Rin a very, very, _suspiciously_ long time to answer when Gou calls. She leans comfortably into the cushy chaise lounge in her living room, twirling the little curls at the nape of her neck around one finger (the only time she ever gets a hint of curl is after going to the onsen), retrying whenever it flips into his voicemail and wondering. Rin’s usually pretty quick on the draw when his cell phone’s concerned, even this late. Thing never leaves the guy’s side. He’s as bad as she is.

Finally he answers and Gou instantly knows what she’s interrupting.

“Hel….hello…? What-whatd’ya _want_ , Gou?” He’s out of breath, all flustered, and no, Gou has NO problem with not letting this go quietly.

“So!” she says brightly. She hears the rhythmic shifting of fabric on the other end and the hollow gulp as her big bro swallows hard. “Am I _interrupting_ anything important? Taking work home again, hmmm?”

There’s an unmistakable Matsuoka Rin growl on the other end and the phone rustles madly for a minute while muffled voices figure something out. The other voice – what she can hear – initially cajoles temptingly, then there’s a ringing, honest laugh as the line shuffles and her bro is back.

“Okay, HOMEWRECKER, you can talk to me now, you happy?” Gou knows the anger is all part of their ritual, as is the pain in the ass thing she has to continue to do.

“Big brother!! Of course I’m happy to talk to you! And you know, you didn’t _have_ to answer, sweetie. There’s this wonderful new invention called voice-mail…”

Rin’s full-on roaring at her now like a wild animal and she hears the mystery voice’s lovely musical laugh again. “ _Look,_ ya little shit, little thing about someone calling me _12 times_ in a row, making me think, oh, that maybe Mom was lying dead in a ditch or had maybe discovered what I do or –”

“You know Mom wouldn’t give a damn. She’s way too liberated/neo-hippie for that,” she interrupts breezily.

“Yeah, well, you try saying that when it’s YOU, Little-Miss-Financial-Planning-Type. She has no confusion about YOUR career path.”

“Waah, waah, waah. Crybaby.” She smiles and stretches toward her aqua toes on the lounge.

“Okay, so, seriously, I love talking to you, Gou, but what? I sorta have some company of the male persuasion over here, as you heard.”

Gou feels bad (for the mystery stranger as much as or maybe more than her brother) and gets to the point. “SO. You will NOT believe the weirdest thing that’s happening at work that concerns us intimately.”

“You got named CEO too and got me a job as, uh, ‘Official Company Muse’?” Muffled amused talking in the background and Rin fires back an acidic reply she can’t hear.

“Nope. Have you ever met authors by the names of Nanase Haruka or Yamazaki Sousuke?”

Rin laughs “his” laugh, an endearingly dumb-sounding _huh-huh-huh._ “Again. Do I WORK in an industry where I run into a lot of authors?”

“Damn, no need to get snippy! I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ So, it’s so weird: these two guys are currently co-writing a piece for us – really hot thing set in 18th-century America – and you and I are in it! Ta-da!”

A pause. Gou _knew_ she’d get his attention with this. For all his fierce intelligence hidden deceptively by his, uh, non-academic job, he had a long streak of the illogical, of the romantic and the superstitious and the signs from beyond kind of thing. This was right up his alley, indeed.

“Oookay, what you mean, ‘in it’?”

“Meaning, I think I made such a positive impression on one of these authors he put me in as this pioneer-settler woman, who is totally _awesome._ I honestly can’t explain what’s the deal with your character – you’re basically the romantic lead/hero –” She hears him gasp delightedly under his breath, and smiles. “Though, I must say you have a healthy sick and twisted streak that’s just gonna get healthier.”

“Holy shit! That’s insane!! How can this be? Do you think they saw one of my videos?” His voice is practically vibrating. “That’s all I can think of! What do these guys look like again? Maybe if you described them…”

“One tall, totally-built, perfectly groomed, dark hair, teal eyes if you can believe that. The other guy little, slim, a total mess, kind of a hipster type if you squint, mop of black hair, deep blue eyes. Both hot.” Gou has always prided herself on her descriptive skills (and she’s the damn _CFO,_ she’s not even the talent) and has secretly wished she could give eyewitness testimony ‘cause she’d kick ass at it.

A totally appreciative wolf-whistle. “Uh, _yeah,_ they sound hot! Damn, woman! This better not be some elaborate practical joke, or I. Will. Annihilate. You.”

“Nope. And it’s very, very important that you PROMISE you’ll stay away from these guys while they write. It’s very important!! They didn’t know you existed but created you for their novel anyway. So if they meet you, you’ll mess up their process completely. For all I know, you’ll make a rip in the space-time continuum like some bad sci-fi movie and blink yourself right out of existence.”

“Ha, ha, ha, SIS.” His voice is darkly amused and she can tell this whole thing has tickled him to his core. “You know, I understood your basic ‘real-world’ premise and won’t do anything, promise. Ya didn’t have to stoop to lame-ass _Back to the Future_ shit too. Even though that movie was absolute gold.”

Ahhh, her brother and his love-affair with Hollywood. She smiles fondly. “Well, glad to hear that. Since you passed my test, I’m about to do something VERY BAD and possibly illegal for you, so you have to PROMISE you’ll keep this completely to yourself ‘cause our company bylaws and copyright law and a couple of totally hot guys’ intellectual property are at stake.”

She hears a grin in his voice. “…are you about to do what I think you are?”

She takes a deep and hopefully preparatory soul-cleansing breath. “Yep – if you’re thinking I’m going to let you read this thing along with us.”

***

HOLY GOD THAT WAS A CHATTY-CHAPTER and sorry we rapidly dropped into high-school territory with people hooking up to dis each other, tumblr-stalk, and find out who’s doing who. Hope you enjoyed :)

Ripped LOTR off for the chap title this time – sorry, Prof. Tolkien!

The totally fantastic-looking [hot spring/onsen](http://www.timeout.jp/en/tokyo/venue/8668/Spa-LaQua) Gou and Nagisa take Haru to. They do massage and other spa stuff and, yes, are open all night. I’m drooling.


	12. “…I missed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi-di-ho! At this time of big plot developments (ha - well, for this fic anyway ;)), I still was compelled to take a huge timeout for 4K of shameless PWP for Sou and Haru. It was a fun chance to see Sou's blind-spots (some ego issues) and kinks (man he has a hidden daddy-ish thing tho they're the same age ;)). It was also an excuse to get Haru in this "I'M WITH STUPID" shirt. Best thing EVER :D
> 
> OMG the comments have reached a new peak of awesome - ??? How can they possibly get better? <3

Sousuke blinks as he stares unthinking at his vaulted ceiling, the early-morning shadows making the space above his bed seem even higher. From the spot where he always seems to be when he wakes up, dead-center of his king-sized bed, his view isn’t even framed by the wrought-iron sculpture-box that runs around the perimeter of the four posts. So it almost feels like looking up at the sky. Maybe if he sticks some glow in the dark stars up there or something, it’d complete the effect. Before knowing it he hears himself snort; definitely something Nanase would do at his place like some cross between a moony astrophysics major and a spooky-precocious eight-year-old. (Not a bad description of him, actually.) He’d have to be sure to see if they were on the ceiling when they took a turn writing at his place.

Sousuke lightly draws his fingernails up and down his abs under his tank top as he gazes up. He wonders what the view might be like over there, looking up at his glow in the dark stars and planets and moon (now that it’s in his mind, he can’t get rid of it), on Nanase’s futon (???). Would it even be full-sized? The guy was a pretty committed virgin, at least until he came along, and it sounds like he didn’t need to waste space in his shoebox apartment for anything sexual. At least of the two(-plus) person variety.

 _Why_ was that guy a virgin? He’s well aware of all the utterly true stuff he’s said to Nanase to try to give him a hand, try to let him see how his quirks-and-worse appear to the world. He’s caustic, sandpaper, a porcupine, all “don’t _fuck_ with me” even as little and sort of vulnerable as he seems. But, the words of his awkward and weirdly-stirring encounter with Ryuugazaki seeping up into his mind and receding, it’s all justified. All of it, every obnoxious reactionary bit. Instead of wanting to throttle Nanase as a natural conclusion to one of their verbal blowouts, Sousuke is seized by the image of instead reaching forward…

…snagging one of Nanase’s arms…

…pulling him into his chest, just _folding_ him in in one smooth move, one hand at the perfect little curve in his low back and the other in his soft, soft hair…

…and not even saying anything, maybe just going “shhh…shhh” like a goddamn dad comforting a baby, comforting HIS baby –

Sousuke ejects himself out of bed and strides to his walk-in closet.

*

No one else is in the building’s exercise room, even though the fitness nuts should be hitting it before their 8-to-5 jobs. Sousuke’s grateful, shaking himself out after his warmup and slotting the pin into the stack of weights on the supine leg machine, staring for a second with a slanted frown, going down two more. He lowers himself onto his stomach on the angled bench and easily finds the leg pad with his ankles, flexes his knees and feels the familiar satisfaction as the huge stack silently and slowly comes up. Smooth. Powerful. Totally in control. He blows out a steady exhale.

That’s why, he thinks. Why Nanase Haruka has had essentially no experience getting close, that eager tongue in someone else’s mouth, those little moans filling the air, slim arms around their back, long long legs coming up and around somebody else’s waist like a damn promise, hole ready to take whatever they had to give –

Sousuke accidently lets the stack down too fast and it slams into place, echoing in the empty room. He puts his hot face into the bench and breathes, just breathes, feeling himself getting hard against the padded bend. God. _God._ He breathes.

They, they _all,_ obviously didn’t have any luck getting past that shell. Didn’t find out his backstory, from Nanase himself or anyone else. And without knowing that, he was basically Fort Knox. Whether the stop-work order came from him (most likely…? He wonders) or from them, without getting why he was the way he was, even a little, it’s no wonder Nanase was an island. Apparently happy alone, just having his weird little interests and hanging with his couple of friend-followers, alienating everybody as a reflex, getting his peace in the pool, from his writing.

It makes Sousuke so, so furious. Makes him tempted to somehow get his hands on a firearm, to be only partway joking. To track Nanase’s fucking bastard parents down – Tokyo, was it? – and have a little _chat_ with them. About what their actions and lack of actions have done to their only kid.

His hard-on-in-progress isn’t going anywhere. Grunting in frustration, he swings his legs out of the leg pads and leans up to snag his hoodie hanging on the machine above, sitting on the bench. He dips his phone from the pocket and checks the time. 7:05. Early, too early to call him. Better text instead.

He finds him in his call history and hits send. Three, four rings and his quiet voice comes on. “Yamazaki? What’s … what’s going on?” Hard to read as always. But there’s an overlay of worry in his voice. Subtle.

“We still on today? 9am OK?” He’s clutching the phone way, way too tight and forces himself to cut it out.

No change in his deadpan delivery but Sousuke can swear that worry overlay is gone. “9’s fine. You want me to pick up some goji-berry water?” He interrupts himself with a low, snorty laugh and Sousuke knows he’s being made fun of. He lets it go.

“Nah, you feel free to bring anything you want but you don’t have to. I’ll cook for us again.”

An irritated scoff. “You have to quit that. It isn’t fair. I’m glad to –”

“Nope. No arguments. See ya then.” This time he’s the one who gets to hang up, and does it with a little smile.

*

He hears the front door swing very slowly open, hesitantly, a few minutes after nine. He’s ready, naked, insanely hard, cock practically ready to jump off his body and form its own colony somewhere else. Oozing precum, glistening and anticipating in the light from the big bedroom windows, heavy drapes open. He leans against the wall, next to the bedroom door where it’s slightly ajar, leaning his swimming head against the wall too, head full of Nanase.

He’s so worked up, his senses are so cranked he hears the door swing almost like he’s right there in the foyer, by his sideboard, watching the door open revealing him in whatever totally nuts thing he’s wearing today. But he’s not there, and so he hears-sees Nanase’s slow footsteps in, soft like he’s got sandals or something on. Then he hears him. “…Yamazaki? Oi, big guy?” Carrying through his clean and empty great room. Smooth. Low. Baritone. He wonders if he ever really noticed Nanase’s baritone before – this is like some sensory-deprivation thing, this is forcing him to pay attention to stuff he misses and he’s realizing how attractive his voice is. And how unexpected it is coming from that little guy…

The footsteps pause and suddenly his cell is ringing on the bedside table – some aggressive techno thing, he chose it to always force him to answer. He hears a “Hmmm…” from the great room, thoughtful, to himself, as the soft steps pick back up and now he hears the swish of clothes as Nanase heads towards the source of the ringtone.

Towards the bedroom door that’s slightly open, that he pushes gingerly like he doesn’t want to wake Yamazaki up if he’s napping. Which he isn’t.

Nanase steps into the room, Sousuke’s keyed-up visuals instantly registering the extreme side-sweep to his hair that makes him look like some mega-rich beautiful trust-fund kid, somehow; an impression clashing horribly with his t-shirt saying “ _I’M with STUPID!”_ with an arrow pointing down to his crotch. Pair of the skinniest skinny-jeans – chartreuse – he’s ever seen in his life, and those legs just never stop. His ears were right: flip-flop sandals again.

And blue, blue eyes widening in sudden almost-shock as Sousuke slides forward and sweeps him up off the ground, cradling him as he walks them over and falls onto him on his bed. The look of shock hasn’t left Nanase’s face and he’s suddenly afraid the guy’s afraid, or stunned; so he lays big hands on the sides of his fine-boned face, gazing down, says the first thing that comes to mind.

Which is so NOT HIM.

“…I missed you.”

Nanase gets a weird expression, a sly little smile but a softening of his eyes, a squint. “How the fuck can you miss me. We just spent like 12 hours together Tuesday.” His hands – smooth, slim hands – have found their way to Sousuke’s shoulders and he’s rubbing them, very gently.

Sousuke shrugs against Nanase’s hands, leans suddenly in and plunders his mouth, just ransacks it like a crooked vice squad tossing an apartment for drugs, slick and wet and hot and jagged against his teeth. He pulls up to gasping below him and keeps on talking like there was no break. “Too long.”

“You damn pervert, Yamazaki,” he bitches out of breath, perfect red cheeks totally giving him away, and Sousuke can’t look away from his mouth now, that mouth that’s ridiculous, _he’s got the mouth of a damn heroine on the cover of a romance novel,_ all palest pink and tiny and shaped like a sugar rose on top of a cake.

He dives back in and sticks out his tongue, traces an ear with the very tip, can feel Nanase almost thrumming all along his naked body. Can feel a hardness growing against his low-belly. Again….all talk. Good.

He quits his softest lick and whispers in his ear: “I need you. Now. Is that OK?”

Nanase’s Adam’s apple jumps as he swallows. His baritone is soft. “You know, for sex-talk, that was passable but pretty lame. I’d say, mmm, a C. You wanna try again?” He’s biting his lip. The little shit.

He sits back from Nanase, suddenly, popping his fly on _yet another absurd pair of pants_ (does he own stock or something…???) and yanking them off. He sees the expected jammers in their usual spot and can’t help it – he busts out laughing and it’s completely worth it for the sheer murder on his pretty face.

“What?? So I give a shit about fitness! That’s funny to you?” he’s grousing, petulant, and Sousuke just laughs harder and shakes his head at what a little kid he is. He also knows they have a show to get on the road and slips the suit off his slim, perfect hips, he’d drool if he gave himself the time, he has no time, he has a _mission._

”Ya don’t like my sex-talk, eh?” he muses, then holds Nanase’s pretty, tapered cock delicately in his index finger and thumb like it’s a fine cigar, before sinking in and taking his entire length in one go.

“Ohhhh!!!” he hears above him as two – smooth, slim – hands get lost in his hair. Sousuke pauses where he is for a moment, somehow smiling around the man’s decent length, realizing something. At this moment, here, he’s _happy._ The hands on his skull are practically vibrating in their excitement and … their emotional overload, he thinks. He’s making Nanase feel like this. _Nanase,_ which – on the surface – is basically making a cyborg crack. Or a superspy. Or a cyborg superspy. Hmmm, there’s a book idea…

He huffs a little chuckle as he draws slowly, so slowly up his length, and Nanase whacks him on the side of his head. Sousuke lets his dick fall out of his mouth, rubbing his head and smirking.

“You fucking laughing at me? Jerk. You a piece of work, ya know that?” Sousuke HAS to peek up quick before starting again, at Nanase’s angry mask, with the contradicting dancing eyes glinting through, sugar lips red instead of pink now. Ahhh it’s a look he could take to his grave and be happy about.

“I would say sorry if I was, but I’m not, so...this’ll have to do –” And he’s attacking his cock this time, trying to pull back as many negative-Gs with the sheer power of his mouth as he can, traveling up and down the rapidly-hardening shaft as the lithe man writhes on his bed. He lets him. The lushest sweetest sounds keep spilling around his ducked head as he’s hard at his task, his sort of payment, some part of his mind helpfully taking them in and recording them for future use.

He draws back with a _pop_ this time and the murderous look he gets is for a very different reason. He paces – very aware of how good he looks, naked, shiny with the littlest sheen of sweat, he isn’t a buckets-of-sweat kind of guy – over to the bedside and returns with the lube, a few condoms. He feels the weight of the cobalt eyes the whole way there and back, and when he settles back Nanase looks fucking _hungry._ His look alone gives Sousuke’s dick a warning twitch, and he wonders the last time a look almost did him in.

He wants the totally ridiculous (but sort of hilarious and apropos) shirt off him. NOW. He reaches out, reflexively, then stops himself. Nanase’s confused. “You take it off,” he says, and his voice is embarrassingly thick, and he doesn’t care. Nanase does a tiny shrug – that’s 100% him – and reaches for his collar to pop out of the shirt. Sousuke sits back, the same mini-striptease he gave Nanase happening for him, watching with interest as he shows Sousuke his milky abs, his firm and somehow discreet pecs, each crowned with a perfect pink nipple, reminding him of Nanase’s lips, the image of sugar roses unable to leave his mind. The shirt continues off and Nanase keeps his arms up there too, like he doesn’t even have the strength to bring them back, boxing his head, his black hair a complete mess like he’s seen so often on him _but never in this context._

And oh, how he could get used to this context.

He can’t help sinking down, tasting the dramatic hollow of his throat, sucking each clavicle, thumbs stroking half-circles under his pecs. Nanase’s panting lightly, quietly, and he’s wrapping his legs – as long, long as they’ve seemed in his fantasies – firmly around his hips. Like a woman. Flexible. Firm pressure of two heels against his upper thighs, still pleasantly sore from the weightlifting this morning. Their two cocks whispering against each other, almost too much heat and pressure together, like it could be dangerous.

His tongue heads south and he follows, straight down the defined line of his abdominals, a muscular guy for sure, hiding in his weird hipster clothes, swimming in that giant Army jacket. He hits Nanase’s cock and thinks, _he’s waited,_ and is gentle this time. Gentle, just the tip of his almost angry-hard length, that’s all it takes more times than not. He does nothing to hold those hips back – if the slim man wants to thrust, or move around, he’ll go with it – and sucks it inside. Salty, firm, and also soft – like a horse’s nose, if he wants to be pathetically (or maybe creepily) poetic about it. And it’s not like Sousuke’s a big horseman anyway….

He softly rotates his head, dipping his tongue in to taste him again with each twist, one hand firmly stroking his shaft, the other palming his balls. Not too far from that fateful first hand job – with the addition of his lips almost kissing the tip. Nanase’s apparently forgiven him, hands back in his hair which weirdly feels so good, subtly bringing his hips from the bed with each stroke and moaning helplessly. He doesn’t say a word or make a sound to warn Sousuke that he’s coming, which is just _so damn Nanase,_ and he’s lucky he’s had plenty of experience in the subject and is ready to take him in, drinking him down, his spurts almost violent and not-too bitter.

Nanase is full-on panting as he releases him, boxed arms pulled down over his eyes. He sits back and memorizes the sight for a moment, before settling back down between his legs, drawing the little man’s feet onto his shoulders. Nanase moves bonelessly. He reaches out, slicks his fingers with lube. Above him, the panting has slowed and Nanase takes a huge sigh. “Yep, I was too hasty,” he practically _purrs._ “You’re a solid C+. Maybe even a B-.”

“OK, _asshole –_ ” he growls through gritted teeth and this time it’s Nanase smirking, until he slides his middle finger in, deep. He gets a gasp for that, firm hands on his shoulders (that somehow ease up instantly without a squeeze, and he wonders how Nanase would know to do that). He’s always been a tease when he uses his fingers; he understands exactly where everything is and how someone will react when he works them. He’s sure Nanase will be no exception, as he eases his index finger in too (sooner than Sousuke expects) and works up a familiar rhythm, tickling and stroking and _stretching._ He’s totally absorbed in the sight of his hand – three-fingers-deep now – disappearing into Nanase, the light tan of his skin contrasting against Nanase’s white, coffee and cream. He watches his hole expand to accommodate him and finally can’t stand it any longer, pulling his hand back and glancing up at what he’s sure will be a sweaty, disheveled, _ruined –_

Nanase’s watching him with a sort of breathless yet kind detachment, like a dad letting his kid demonstrate _that thing_ for the hundredth time at the pool. Sousuke frowns up at him and Nanase just blinks back.

“So…” Nanase starts, slowly. “Are we doing it here? Or did you have something else in mind?”

Now Sousuke’s the one just blinking, but his dick is still firmly on board, so he shrugs and grabs a foil packet, unrolls it down and lubes himself, rewarded with a widening of those eyes. He crawls up his body. “This is a good place to start. Then we can see what happens,” he reasons, reaching over his head to grab a pillow and bringing it down to tuck under Nanase’s hips. He lifts up for it immediately, the mark of an erotica writer or porn user (or both).

“Thanks,” he breathes, and suddenly he’s Shy-Nanase, hair tumbling free over his forehead in a black spill, feathering into his incredible, out-of-this-world eyes as his cheeks pink and he bites a lip again. Sousuke lurches forward, covering him carefully and resting on his elbows, using his fingertips to brush the hair out of his eyes.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

Sousuke threads an arm under Nanase’s shoulders, cradles his head; two slender arms come immediately up around his broad back, two long long legs are back up around his hips, fitting naturally, like they belong there. He reaches his other hand between them and guides himself to Nanase’s hole, pushes. He brings the hand up to cup the side of his face, fingers in the black strands.

Nanase’s breathing fast. Maybe a little too fast, but his eyes are burning and he reaches his chin up, awkwardly initiates a sloppy kiss as Sousuke just keeps sliding deeper and deeper. Nanase gasps right against his lips – “Ah!!” – and he gets the hint and waits, leans in and learns his full jawline with his lips. Nibbles an earlobe, listens and is happy when the chest fluttering against his calms. He sucks hard on the lobe as he falls in further, and then Nanase breathes “ahhhh” into his ear and it’s light-years-different from the other one. So low. So deep. Almost as deep as he’s inside the other swimmer now, deep as he can go, he’s almost surprised he can given their size difference but he fits perfectly in there, Nanase takes him in surprisingly well, God, he could _live_ in Nanase’s heat.

Sousuke shifts around, gets both arms under him, holds Nanase on his forearms as he pulls back on his shoulders. Nanase seems to get what’s coming and shifts too, rocks his obscenely flexible pelvis up – the move making Sousuke groan – and reinforces his legs’ grip, locking his ankles.

“You know, I don’t have much…experience with…this.” Gaspy. “But I’m pretty sure I like it rough.”

Sousuke almost swallows his tongue.

He’s not done. “Just…just so you know.”

Sousuke doesn’t have to be told twice. He’s no monster, this guy’s a baby, he starts with smooth, even, deep strokes, and Nanase’s got his hands clutched together on his back – tight – and keeps breathing “mmm…” into his ear like he’s eating the best thing ever. That alone – those teeny tiny “mmm’s” – are driving Sousuke insane, he’s never heard that before during sex, that totally relaxed unabashed release. That letting _go._ He finds himself hit by sudden weird jealousy of Nanase – he’s _never_ felt that way having sex, and it can’t be a top-vs.-bottom thing, since he’s done both. Plenty.

The sounds stop for a second, and then there are little teeth – sharp – on his own earlobe. _Hard._

Sousuke growls from deep in his chest, like an animal, and then he’s speeding the pace, not holding back, digging into the bed with his knees and pulling back, back on Nanase’s shoulders, _slamming_ them together. Nanase’s blues are huge, a string of breathless “Ah!”s pushes from his parted sugar lips in time with his punishing strokes, and his hands are using Sousuke’s ass (not his back) as their anchor, and his hips are rocking with Sousuke’s, keeping up, holding on. Their motion is almost furious, like they’re putting all their anger towards each other into it, and at the same time Sousuke feels pained by having to decide: bury his face in his shoulder and lose _that face,_ or look up and miss the dark comfort of rocking into Nanase with his face against the blackness of his hair?

He feels his orgasm build, and starts to pull away to reach Nanase’s cock – but iron-grip hands keep him down. “No…no,” he gasps into Sousuke’s ear and even by his breathing he sounds close. “S-stay.”

Sousuke buries his head again, speeds up his pace even more and now they’re gasping together, bass and baritone, and as he hits his climax he quietly gasps “Nanase!!” into his neck. He’s exploding into him, so deep, Nanase’s following with a breathy “Yama-ahhh!” and tipping his head full-back, white neck exposed, throat working.

He lies on top of Nanase for some unknown time, his hair is so soft and he doesn’t even want to move. He wonders if he actually fell _asleep_ on him when there’s a hard whack on his good shoulder.

“Do you mind?” Irritated.

Sousuke smirks, wiggles back and forth to get even more comfortable on his body-mattress. “Mmm, this is _so nice,_ I could stay all day…”

Nanase’s voice is totally unfazed from under him. “Oh, OK. Guess you won’t care if I do this –” And he _squeezes_ around Sousuke, still inside him, slamming down like a steel door.

Sousuke jumps like he’s electrocuted. “Fuck!”

“No thanks. I gave at the office,” Nanase says, total deadpan. Maybe a hint of a smile.

Sousuke surrenders and rolls off, pulls out, rolls onto his back. Nanase’s expression hardly changes at all. It’s both impressive and almost creepy. He sits up – gracefully – and carefully pulls Sousuke’s condom off. He can tell he’s concentrating on it and can’t help a tiny smile. It’s just so cute.

Condom in hand, Nanase crawls off the bed and heads directly for the master bath. Sousuke stretches out, crosses his hands behind his head as he enjoys the truly magnificent sight of Nanase Haruka leaving the room naked.

“You really are the biggest pain in my ass, you know that?” he calls from the bed.

“Hmmm. Have you met MY ass lately?” comes bouncing off the shower tiles.

Sousuke’s off the bed and out the door.

***

oops...was so, uh, caught up I realized I got to the end here and had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to contribute to this chap's endnote. (That's what staring pervily at Haru for 4K will do to me.) Gomen ;)


	13. A most-lucky number

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oodles and oodles of the MakoRins - both in-the-flesh and fictional - finally make an appearance, if that's your bag, babies ;)))
> 
> LOVE. YOU. ALL. Your input's just making this thing better (not hard to do, true ;D). THANK YOU <3

The first thing that tickles at Michael Tanglewood’s senses is the unmistakable scent of … _chocolate._

The smell is so enticing and nostalgic and warm and sweet and … _comforting,_ he blinks rapidly into unfamiliar darkness to feel two slick tears tracing their soft and somehow inevitable way down both his cheeks.

The tears are the second thing surprising Tanglewood’s assaulted senses.

The third thing he notices, now that full wakefulness is on him, is that the darkness in this unfamiliar place is not complete. It’s broken in fits and starts by the red glow of a crackling fire sitting very low and welcoming in a fireplace faced with large river rocks, beside him where he finds himself on a generous slate hearth. Simple but handsome iron fire tools in a stand to one side – poker, shovel. Neat pyramid of corded wood on the other side. Iron pot swung over the fire, simmering with _that smell_ that awakened him.

The fourth thing he notices about this place is not a thing at all.

It is a person. A man.

 _The_ man.

*

“….Ahhhh!!!”

Rin’s voice carries unavoidably through to Makoto where he’s reading in the living room, shit, flies around Mako’s entire apartment, _easy._ Yeah, he’s got a mouth on him (oh, in SO many more ways than one…) but he didn’t intend to gasp like that, and really, _really_ wished he hadn’t done that. ‘Cause now – ofc – he’s hearing heavy but somehow graceful footsteps coming towards the bedroom, fast, TOO fast. Goddamn goddamn Gou will dismember him she looks all small but it’s all an act –

He’s too flustered or Makoto’s too assassin-fast or both, since he’s frantically stuffing the manuscript folder between his mattress and the box spring as he somehow senses his big sexy lumberjack-y guy already in the bedroom door, curious. He pops up and against the pillows, casually (smooooth) and lays eyes on what Mako’s reading material of choice was this fine evening they magically had off together, still in one big tanned hand.

 _A Brief History of Time._ Stephen Hawking. Riiiiight. And, yeah, MakoGlasses – are – GO! (Which just gives him another reason to be amused since he thought Makoto wore his deep-thinker-sex-magnets for distance. Poseur.)

Before he can honk his doofy laugh at Makoto the big guy’s crossing to the big bed, bemused. “Ah, so I heard…um…something, and thought ‘oh, Rin may need some help with a sexy problem he’s in the middle of.’” He shrugs sadly as he leans deeply over to kiss the redhead, and Rin gets a little waft of a very nice scent from the low dip in his dramatic V-neck shirt. Some sort of orange thing? Tangerine? Rin’s mouth suddenly waters which makes their kiss that much more interesting. Mako isn’t done after they separate. “Nope, I’m dead wrong. No solo sex happening here. Just READING, Rin. Studying … something? Ah well, I should be happy and support you improving your mind and stuff…” Deep, velvety sigh. The jerk.

Rin peeks a nipple out from the V-neck and bites him with his trademark shark-teeth and Mako squeaks (something Rin will never fail to find fucking HYSTERICAL, the guy practically stands a head over him and he fucking _squeaks_ , c’mon now). And he’s painfully flattered deep in his chest when instead of jumping back – reasonable reaction! – Makoto falls forward into the bed, and him, more specifically. Into him then weirdly smooth as he’s swooping Rin up into his giant, muscle-bound arms and bringing the smaller man over him.

Rin braces himself over the beautiful green-eyed brunette, stares down into that face, a face he’s seen in almost every conceivable dramatic expression the past year. There’s the pre-action face, the one where they’re meeting-cute in a konbini as they both reach for the same 6-pack of beer, or something. That face tends to be polite, mainly, but Mako has this ninja-skill for making “polite” look like “I am going to politely put your shopping basket on the ground here then politely push you into this freezer door where I will politely tear your pants off so hard they’ll be in pieces then politely slam into you. Repeatedly. That alright with you? Only if it’s no trouble, of course! So sorry to impose!”

Something about the crinkly-squint to his eyes and his faint little smile.

There’s the total-check-out face, where he’s got Rin leaned wayyyy back on a bathroom vanity – not a stitch on, though most of the time they want Mako still in his nice sweater and jeans, or maybe his pristine designer suit, coat left somewhere in the “living room,” sleeves rolled up to shamelessly flaunt _those_ tanned corded forearms. And what those arms will DO to the slimmer prettier redhead before long… Rin up against a big vanity mirror, the light above from stylish fixtures but still punishing, and Mako’s face is so subtly relentless, the way it doesn’t start at the top and work down, start at the bottom and work up, but is _everywhere_ in no particular fashion – like Rin’s cellphone unlock pattern, or something. Something he’s been able to figure out. With practice.

There’s the power face, what Rin has always called his Captain (but now will have to downgrade to his “Lieutenant”). Totally authoritative. NOT authoriTARIAN; he doesn’t look _cruel_ or punishing when he has Rin bent over on the ground moaning, talking him into spreading his ass and fingering himself just for him; when he has Rin against a shower wall, braced with his cheek alone while Mako has him leaning 90 degrees from behind using his (deceptively strong) arms as his two handles to pull back on; when he uses Rin’s long red hair as leverage to be sure he can see Mako’s (Lieutenant) face as he takes his ridiculous length in his mouth.

He doesn’t even look cruel or punishing when the script calls for cruel or punishing things. When he has Rin over his lap – Rin nude, Mako in his suit, the better to hammer on the daddy trope – Rin gasping with each hard smack Mako gives his perfectly-shaped, perfectly white-edging-to-red ass; but Rin’s seen the slight curl of a lip in the men who should be acting but enjoy this under the mask, and the giant curl in the men who aren’t acting and are on no camera. And Mako looks competent, calm, collected, weirdly benevolent. Authoritative. Not authoritarian. Or one Rin never has to fake enjoyment for – ball-gag firmly seated, hands in the classic handcuff-over-head pose (if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right? :/), legs bound to his sides and into his body to take advantage of his natural flexibility. And Mako gets a little flicker under the Lieutenant mask in this one, he can tell, a dangerous sheen to his gorgeous eyes, pink tongue darting out to lick those wide soft lips. Rin just loves that.

His favorite – no fucking contest (now … THAT would be a script idea!) – is Mako’s tender face. Maybe it’s because it’s the one nearest to his “real” face (though ALL his work faces are real Makoto faces, when he’s with _Rin_ , which is why the two of them together are such an up-and-coming pair).

The tender face almost always makes its appearance when they share little moments – when he pulls up from a thorough tongue-fuck of Rin’s mouth and just _gazes_ down at him, or (Rin’s 2nd favorite) when they’re fucking missionary and he cradles Rin’s head in his arms and gets their faces as close as he can (one the director sighs irritated over playback and huffs “OK, _boys,_ is this one for your audience or for YOU?”). Rin’s 1st favorite has to be the times the camera has stopped, the light over the lens blinking off, money shots or gratuitous facials or whatever finito, and the sound guy and bounce-card guy and camera guy and director are too distracted with squabbling over how things went and they just work themselves closer to each other, on the bed or dungeon floor or pool deck or Bedouin tent floor, muscled arms slotted against each other, powerful legs tossed into each other, and Mako’s face is so tender, tender, _tender_ just – for – him as he leans in for a post-coital kiss.

Makoto’s face is sort of one of his tender ones right now, severe black-framed glasses slipping crookedly down his long narrow nose. Tender, and quiet, and thoughtfully sleepy. Maybe that’s the Hawking talking. Damn black holes. Of the galactic variety.

“But really – whatcha doing? Last time I heard you make such a delighted sound, I had my fist up your ass while you were dressed like Sailor Moon.” Mako’s smirking now.

Rin goes into full-flush mode and, kindly, decides to straighten Makoto’s glasses instead of doing something mean like biting his nose or pulling his shaggy brown hair or sitting up and tweaking both nipples or just generally being a shit. Which Mako is a little entitled to but mostly not. ‘Cause the guy really is the biggest damn sweetie in this or any galaxy. It’s no accident the hair and makeup girls always call him “Saint Tachibana,” and some teeny deep part of Rin is a little pissed by that – or at least uncomfortable – partly childish “I could be that TOO!”, partly ‘cause he knows he’s _no_ saint (never mind the porn) and has never felt “worthy” of this living pillar of fucking kindness under him. Nothing particularly logical. Doesn’t mean he can escape the feeling…..

Fuck it. Such a kind and ethical soul is bound to be utterly trustworthy and able to keep a secret, too; he’s done absolutely nothing to dispute that. And shit – the guy’s playing the damsel-in-distress role in this crazy thing!! It’d be a damn crime NOT to share!

…or so Rin’s amazing powers of rationalization conclude.

He raises one thin expressive brow then rolls off and reaches over to pull the hidden folder from under the mattress (no porn hiding there, no need in this “refreshingly open” household). He comes back to sit cross-legged beside Mako, holding it in his lap hesitantly.

“So. First, I will say that this….this is some really, REALLY weird shit. Like, we’re talking _Twilight Zone, Final Destination, I Know What You Did Last Summer, Outer Limits,_ red string of destiny shit.”

“Oooookay….” Mako’s eyeing him with a look half-amused and half a little worried, definitely the product of his completely epic scaredy-cat-ness, which is another really adorable thing about him and unfortunately gets in the way of any plans they may make involving blood, guts, fear in general (thankfully a rare occurrence as Rin’s way more into action than horror…action and rom-coms, but he’s prepared to go postal on anyone who gives him shit for THAT particular love, thankyouverymuch).

“No! It’s really not a bad or scary thing itself…well, not TOO scary –” he amends, thinking of all the pretty twisted shit in play and likely in store for poor Tanglewood. He relaxes to see Makoto’s fear signatures leave his face. “It’s the _circumstances_ that are just bizarro-land.” He takes a breath, thinking.

“So. You know my sis is a bigwig at a gay romance/erotica publishing house, right?”

Makoto is too fucking cute. He just _lights up._ “Oh my god!! No, you didn’t tell me that, jerk!” He sits up to face Rin and lightly smacks him, playfully, on one defined shoulder, big grin on his face. “What’s it called? Oh my god! I didn’t know such a thing even _existed!_ Where has this been all my life?”

Rin grins back. “Yeah, yeah it is a very cool thing, really pretty successful too, in an indie sorta way. S’pose if you’re a niche of a few or one, you can do OK no matter how much you make.” He flips the pages in his hands absentmindedly. “It’s called ReadFree and was started by a couple of gay guys who Gou knew from high school, can you believe that?? I think they all did stuff for their school’s swimming fun-club, or something.”

Mako smiles wistfully. “Ah, that’s too sweet. Swimmers, our people, ha. And good for them, following their dreams, right?” His face falls measurably, looks so sad for the briefest moment Rin is compelled to lean over and wrap his arms around the bigger guy, just hold those broad backstroker shoulders and squeeze as hard as he can.

“I know. I know, honey. Believe me, it hurts me too. Did we think back then when we were all _booya!_ that we’d end up like _this?_ I know I didn’t.” He fits his face tighter into the crook of Makoto’s shoulder, and wills, wills the sudden and familiar tears away.

Those big hands are up, caressing his back, so warm and gentle and nothing, nothing in this fucking stupid world can compare.

“It’ll be OK, Rin. You’re so damn smart, you’re _brilliant._ And TALENTED. Talents that go so far past how deep you can take some stupid cock –”

“Oh, but THAT is real talent,” Rin interrupts, authoritatively.

“Pffft. Absolutely agreed, smartass. BUT, you’re still meant for something else. I don’t know what, but this just …” Makoto releases him – to his silent chagrin – and spreads his hands helplessly. _I don’t have the words,_ that says. “This just isn’t the ‘final destination’ for you, speaking of. You are destined for such big things.”

That does it. The tears can’t be denied now and Rin lets ‘em, flowing free down around his high cheekbones. He looks stupid as all hell. He ALWAYS does when he cries. Stupid and ugly. He couldn’t give a shit less. Mako pulls him back gently and holds him, verrrry loosely this time. Perfectly.

When Rin knows he can safely form a sentence again, he stays in the comforting darkness of Makoto’s chest but volleys back. “You know, I can’t say enough how much the same is true for you, ya know?”

“You don’t have to say that, Rin.” Mako’s turn to interrupt.

“NO, dipshit!! Lemme say this. You are so damn beautiful. And kind. And smart. And a natural damn leader, you make people do stuff and _make them think they wanted to do it all along,_ how do you DO that? Your EQ is off the motherfucking charts. Which is really, really rare. Especially for a dude, speaking as a guy raised by a big ol’ feminist mom and a raving-dyke little sis.” He comes to a breathless stop in the nice little Mako-cave, raises his puffy-blotchy-ugly-flushed face. Is surprised at the reaction he sees … with the lovely giant before him gazing like Rin’s the loveliest sight he’s ever seen.

Two sighs, Rin’s big and five-year-old-post-tantrum and shuddery, Makoto’s little and quiet and resigned. Both sit back, sit silently facing each other in mirrored poses for a few moments.

“So…. What’s this intriguing mystical mystery you were gonna tell me about?”

Rin wipes his face quickly – wipes his hand on his track pants to avoid any danger of smudging – and pats the pillows. _Lie next to me._

Makoto looks intrigued, and wiggles himself down next to Rin on his big soft queen-sized Western-style bed. Cushy. Rin loves it. Mako takes it a step further and taps Rin’s head, having him lift up so he can slide an arm behind his neck. Rin nestles in again at the crook of Mako’s shoulder. “Oh, your arm’s gonna be so sorry you did that. ‘Cause WE –” he pulls the folder up with a flourish – “are gonna have ourselves a little old-school reading hour here!”

Makoto nestles closer – no blanket necessary in the pleasant temperature of his apartment, but he likes Rin’s heat, he can tell – slipping one hand up just under Rin’s tank top to rest on his abs. “Mmmm, I used to love this. Did it all the time with my little bro and sis, though the books we read were usually, you know, _Hop on Pop_ and then even _His Dark Materials_ and stuff, but I don’t think we were reading –” He reaches up and pulls the title page open. “ _The Last of the BROhicans?_ ” And he’s lost for a good minute, full-on giggling like a little kid. Yet another MakoFactor that just does NOT meet the eye.

“Yup. I sorta love that. It’s a gay romance about a couple guys in the French-Indian war in the U.S. in the mid-1700s.” Rin pauses waiting for a snarky interruption, but he’s just listening with genuine interest, gazing at the folder with what looks like almost excited anticipation. Rin wonders how long that’ll last once he sees the twisted shit coming down the pike for his character. “That’s cool and all but the reason we MUST read this is just too weird. And before I go on, I gotta say the most important thing.

“We technically shouldn’t be doing this at all.”

Makoto, beautifully characteristic, instantly looks _stricken_. Rin goes on. “So this is an unpublished work in progress by a couple of guys at their publishing house and only Gou knows we have it.” Pause. “Knows _I_ have it. She gave it to me in confidence to let me read as they work on it, which I have to say was really fucking nice if more than a little irresponsible of her. Little rebel.” He smirks.

“But…why would she risk that? What’s so special about this?” Mako looks suspicious.

“WELL. They were recently at a team-read at the publishers, and Gou suddenly realized – holy _shit –_ a character in here was based on her! A pioneer woman. Because apparently she hit it off with one of the authors.” One that hasn’t left Rin’s mind since he opened the folder for the first time. Neither guy, really. If he doesn’t get his hands on a couple of pics soon, he may have to throw a truly epic shit-fit at someone. Probably his poor, undeserving sis, who got him in on this scam in the first place.

Mako’s green eyes are shining like a kid on Christmas morning. “Oh! That is so neat!! I think I’d never be able to sleep through the night again if someone did that for me, how exciting!”

Rin’s _grinning_ now. Ah, this was all worth it. This moment, the big reveal. “Well, lov-ah, get your Nyquil-PM ready, ‘cause guuuuuess who’s in it too? As the two male leads?”

Makoto has a total poker-face on. Which means Rin’s just (temporarily) fried his neural circuits, as that is NOT his normal state of being. “That doesn’t make sense. Who are these guys? These authors?”

Rin holds the folder up and points to their names (their beautiful names, he’s come to think, one abrasively masculine, one almost poetically feminine, and he wonders if their looks correspond to those impressions….). “Hmm…Yamazaki Sousuke and Nanase Haruka… God, I don’t know either! You said both are guys, even this Haruka?”

Rin snorts. “Yep. And we should talk, right?”

Mako just smiles. Traces the names with a big pointer finger. “I … I just don’t get it. I swear to God I’ve never met either of these guys! You too?”

“Do I LOOK like I hang with a lot of intellectual types?”

Big slap on his stomach, hard enough to make him go “oof!” “Sorry. But hey now, I’m sitting there reading Stephen Hawking, I’ll have you know, so watch it.”

Rin snuggles back in, smiling. “I really have no clue, it is driving me BATSHIT to be perfectly honest, and that’s part of the weird fun. And the really tortuous part is my sis has absolutely _sworn_ that I don’t try to contact either guy while they work on this, ‘cause that could interfere with their ‘process,’ or some such pretentious shit. Which I s’pose makes sense,” he says grudgingly, then, “Hey!!! She didn’t know about _you,_ so she never swore YOU to this no-interference clause! YOU should totally ‘accidentally bump into them’ at, dunno, the gym or something!! Where do mega-hot gay romance novelists hang, anyway?”

Makoto was shaking his head ruefully until he got to the “mega-hot” bit then bursts out in a truly nasty amused noise, and Rin’s proud of him. (Whenever he isn’t too nice, it makes Rin glad to see his progress on the path towards Rinhood.) “Um, tell me why, a) you assume they’re ‘mega-hot,’ and not a couple of wrinkly pervy old guys, and b) you seem so damn delighted by this idea. What, am I not enough for you, _Matsuoka?”_ And now he’s full-jerk, half-rolling and getting Rin’s vulnerable sides in a vicious tickle attack. He (over)reacts like he’s just been stuck on Old Sparky and ends up flailing right off the bed.

Mako’s head is over the side instantly, peering over with such an expression of mournful worry Rin cuts his “ow ow ow”ing off immediately. “I’m fine,” he chuckles, climbing back into bed. He’s rewarded with Makoto’s genuine relief and is manhandled back into his big warm side like he’s a human sex-doll. Without the sex part. Or the tacky squeaky vinyl. Or the creepy fixed look of supposedly-erotic horror. Or any of it, really.

“SO,” he continues. “Only thing I can figure, ONLY thing, is they’ve seen our vids – gotta be ones of us together. Because there’s just something I feel like they’re going to, hmm, _get_ about us both and about us together. About us as people, and as a ‘couple.’ Though, as I’ve thought of it, how they could pick that up from our lame clichéd videos is just beyond me. That’s where we really get into mystical red thread of fate crap. It just … seems like something is going on here. Something big.”

Makoto looks at the black folder again with almost some superstitious fear creeping around the edges of his expression, which morphs into determination. “Well, then, if this is our fate, to see what these two mega-hot dudes think of us, who are we to argue? I take it you’re a ways in and I have to catch up?”

Rin’s a little embarrassed at his eagerness. “Well … yes, but let’s read together anyhow. It’s so good and I wouldn’t mind another time. You want me to read to you?” Shy voice. Something Rin basically never lets out.

Mako grabs the other side of the folder, takes off his glasses ( _ha!! Distance! Gotcha_ ), settles in. “Let’s do it.”

*

 _The_ man sat on a low stool near the fireplace, and with the utmost care used an iron fire hook to swing the (maddeningly sweet-smelling) pot out. He poured a thick white liquid – fresh cream, from the looks of it – from a humble ceramic pitcher into the iron pot, and Tanglewood was captivated by the total patience with which he carried out his seemingly simple task. The cream poured in the finest of streams, purest white against the dimness of the room, and with his other hand he ceaselessly stirred with a large wooden spoon. As if there was nothing more important in this world than being sure the contents of the pot come out perfectly. And by its smell, Tanglewood couldn’t argue with the idea.

 _The_ man leaned slightly as he trained his eyes on the pot, his posture describing nothing but potential energy – coiled, compact, neat, nothing out of place. Dense with subtle muscle, something he could assess even with the deerskin breeches, shirt and leather jerkin hiding his skin from view. Something that was just implied by the graceful lines of his shoulders, outstretched arms as he tended to his domestic task, taut and trim torso against the tight lines of his clothing, his curled legs almost a sculpture on the stool, or a gesture, a dance move frozen in space. Deerskin slippers against the slate of the hearth, soft, soft.

And Tanglewood’s eyes were dancing again – to the provocative turn of his buttocks jutting out on the stool, that buttery leather strained to its tightest in this lushest of bodily areas. Especially on _this_ man – he had never seen a posterior like this on a man, round and perfect as a summer peach. Another flick of his green eyes, and he was drinking in the man’s hands, pale, _pale_ white (how, in this rough territory??), holding each of their tools so lightly and accomplishing their separate tasks so casually and gracefully … like a woman. But not feminine, _per se_ , still with the aggressive energy of a man, yet with a certain almost fey energy he couldn’t take his eyes from. Slim, fine-fingers, beautiful. _Beautiful._

Dancing again. Up to the area he’d been avoiding, avoiding, this contact would be too much for him, but he couldn’t avoid any longer, couldn’t avoid _his face_ –

He gasped.

 _The man_ – of course – heard and glanced over at him, where (for the first time he realized) he was quite comfortably bundled very near on the hearth, on some kind of featherbed, buried in stacks of woolen and fur blankets, feather pillow under his head. He was surprised by such comfort in such a humble dwelling.

And that face …

“Ah! You’re awake! I’m so glad,” he said, a huge, angular grin splitting his face and making him even lovelier, if possible. “Ya know, I was starting to get just a little worried as the time passed, not knowing exactly what that _bastard_ had done to you –” Look of chilling, pure murder on his elven features. “Another hour, was about to wake you, so I’m glad you did it yourself! No one wants a Rob Miller wake-up call, believe me.” He dropped the spoon in the pot and gently placed the pitcher on the hearth, stood with silent fluidity and came over to where Tanglewood blinked stupidly up at this absolute – and stupefying – vision before him.

He dropped close beside on his knees and gently – oh, so gently – laid a warm hand on one bare shoulder. “Would you like some help to try to sit up? I can fix your bed so you can stay here and still sit comfortably. If you feel up to it, of course!” His voice was so musical and smooth, Tanglewood felt a quick and honest stab of superstitious fear – could this gorgeous man actually be fey folk? NO human had grace like this, a face of such angular and feminine perfection as his, a voice of such hypnotic power as this, hair and eyes the very color of the fire before them like this.

This man was not real. COULD not be real.

Tanglewood suddenly struggled to a sitting position on his own, feeling an overwhelming need to seize some kind of control – normalcy, safety – over an unsettling situation, directly following the truly horrific situation he’d just escaped…

With the help of a lovely redheaded woman – and this beautiful man?

The man dove forward to help him, and as _those hands_ grabbed his shoulders, he felt a thrill he couldn’t place – the closest approximation the experience of shuffling across a carpet at his estate, winter in full force and a rare dry day upon them, and touching the door handle only to leap back. Tingling with a sudden near-violent shock. This man’s hands felt like that, spreading from his bare shoulders down his arms, his torso, to where the blankets pooled in his lap.

The man must have felt it as well, pulling his hands back as if stunned, and the two gazed at each other for a long, wordless moment. The man appeared so confidently garrulous Tanglewood assumed he would be the one to break the heavy silence, yet he acted as if he was operating under a spell almost as powerful as Tanglewood’s, staring wide-eyed at him. Tanglewood laid his hands primly in his covered lap and finally took control.

“I am Lieutenant Michael Tanglewood of Her Majesty’s Military Regiment, 5th Battalion, 3rd Division, at your service – such as it has become…. And you are…?”

The man seemed to shake himself a bit before replying, and his lovely voice was decidedly more muted. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Mike –” Tanglewood flinched in surprise at the sheer informality – not only no title, but given names as well? And “Mike”? His savior (…captor…?) noticed his reaction immediately. “Oh, sorry about that, Mike, so informal, I know. I’m Rob Miller, and you can call me Rob – actually, please do. We only go by first names here so unless you really object that’s just what you’re gonna get here, if that’s alright.”

Tanglewood – _Mike_ – sat and blinked for a few moments, tasting it. He was surprised that he didn’t hate it, and in fact liked its abruptness, crispness. _Americanness._ He was in America, after all; he might as well play the part, at least while he was here.

“No … no, that will be fine … Rob.” The lovely man smiled in what looked like delight, and to say it lit up his face would be like saying the noon sun was a little bit bright. He suddenly jumped, turned back to the pot pulled out from the fireplace.

“Oh! Forgot the hot chocolate! Stupid me, hope I didn’t turn it to rubber while we were jawing away!” He gave it a few deft swirls with the spoon, smiled in relief, grabbed the pitcher again and poured the rest of the cream into the pot. A few more stirs and he returned it to the low fire with the hook.

Mike was touching his fingers to his lips, only partly conscious of doing so. “Pardon me … did – did you say _hot chocolate_?”

Rob settled back on his stool comfortably – like he belonged there – giving the heavenly mixture an occasional stir. “Oh, you bet. I figured a special treat was in order since we had a special guest tonight.” He stopped, and his face gained that look of _murder_ again. A look Mike would be deeply afraid to see directed at himself. “A fine guest who has been through hell, sheer horrible hell, and when people feel like they’re at the end of their ropes, I think most of ‘em appreciate a good cup of hot chocolate. You like hot chocolate?” A kind smile.

Mike was suddenly seized with the uncontrollable urge to burst into sobs, at the sheer dumb luck of fate, the most-bizarre turns of events that could find him guilelessly marching through the forest with his company this morning – bound and unconscious and held captive this afternoon, his company a bleeding pile of corpses behind him – tied to a hitching post, choked and nearly raped by a sadistic demon this evening – and warm, secure, with a kind and clearly too-good-to-be-true man before him this night. A man offering him _his favorite beverage in the world._

He somehow held his tears back with all the self-discipline the British Army had beat into him, smiling shyly at the angel before him. “Yes … yes, I actually love it. Love any form of chocolate. I don’t suppose it’s terribly masculine, suppose that’s quite a womanly thing, liking sweets. But they’ve always been my Achilles’ heel, you might say.” Rob snickered at him, and Mike was delighted to feel he was being laughed _with,_ not _at._ A subtle but delightful distinction.

The redhead stood and busily procured two delicate teacups from the mantle – bone-china, hand-painted, certainly worth something. Mike was surprised again. “Those… those are lovely cups,” he said carefully, not wishing to insult his savior. Life on this new frontier was, as they said, ugly, brutish and short, and people were certainly right to treasure whatever beauty they could find.

Rob looked genuinely pleased. “Thankee. These are actually pretty special to me and my sis – ah, I believe she’s the only one of us you met before taking a tumble and ending up here.” He took a soft, clean cloth – deerskin again, it seemed – from a pouch along his belt and wiped each cup out. He ladled a generous amount into each from the deep wooden spoon, leaned to Mike to hand it to him. Their fingertips touched on his cup – Mike’s broad and square, Rob’s fine and tapered – and both shivered again, despite the July heat.

Both men sat back for a moment, thoughtfully taking the first careful sips at their hot drink. With his first taste, Mike had to struggle to hold his tears back again; he had heard once that smell was the most-powerful provocateur of memory, followed closely by taste, and this cup held the purest memory of _home_ for him that he’d experienced since leaving England. The tea, the crumpets, the Welsh rarebit or steak at fancy dinners; nothing brought the feeling of his humble home back to him like this sweetness, this explosion of flavor, this _comfort._

Before he had any inkling of what he was doing, any conscious thought, Mike found himself setting his cup far to the side, and awkwardly, clumsily crawling to _that man…_

 _…_ reaching both hands up…

…threading them into his flaxen hair, so shockingly soft to his trembling hands…

…and reaching his head up for a fumbling, uncertain kiss.

*

“Well, FINALLY! Took us long enough!!” Rin interrupts Mako, deeply embarrassed to find himself breathless. It’s just like the fucking rom-coms he can’t stay away from. He falls for it all every … fucking … time!

“Oh, Rin, that’s not fair!” _Oh my God, he’s upset – could that be any more fucking adorable??_ “It’s only chapter 3 after all, don’t they have to build, even in a romance novel? Plus, you guys just got me out of that totally traumatic situation, you don’t wanna be rushing into anything with me, right?” He pauses and his face takes on a little of Rob’s “murder-look”. “ _Though,_ sure didn’t stop you from getting your jollies in the trees while Chief Fuckwad stood there using me like a dog. So, thanks for that, _hon._ ”

“Ha ha, ha ha, ha….” Rin tries, lamely, sadly. He can’t deny that whole sequence was both deeply horrific – the very thought of anyone ACTUALLY kidnapping and raping Mako like that enough to spike his BP and heart rate and get him in full-on aggro-mode – and yet undeniably, painfully erotic, the actions of his alter-ego totally justified in his mind. Hell, in the same situation, he thinks he’d probably do the same, which absolutely creeps him out in general and to think of these two nameless writers in his head to such a spooky degree.

“Well,” Makoto restarts primly, “The big rape scene notwithstanding, I’m finding the lack of sex … surprisingly … _sexy._ Don’t know if it’s what we do for a living – like, having dicks waved in our faces for six hours straight, maybe that just sorta takes the novelty off.” Rin snickers. “But I think it’s … mmm … erotic. It’s the language, the imagery, the sorta scene-setting and foreshadowing –”

“The total kickass chemistry they’ve set up between us – even with this our first meeting and first kiss!” Rin plows over him, excited.

“Yeah. Which really makes me wonder again if they’re just a couple of avid porno-heads, of our stuff in particular, fanboys, which should probably make us disgusted if not worried.”

Rin’s grinning. “But you’re not, are you.”

Makoto looks deeply embarrassed. “No. Am actually really, really flattered.” He covers his face with his free hand. “Oh my GOD, what would my parents say…”

Rin pokes him in the side. “Oh, you mean if they already knew about your _career path_ too?”

Mako – oh, so carefully – sets the folder temporarily to the side, then leaps on Rin with none of that care he paid to that worthless rectangle of papers, the _fuck_.

***

OH MY GOD I purposely included a major MakoRin plot device in this fic (though I was originally going to almost totally use it in the story-in-a-story, when y’all gorgeous peeps SAVED ME and convinced me to get them in here ASAP in the flesh) to help me work thru my own weirdo MR issues.

K, as I’ve blabbed to a few folks, I’m basically a Haru devotee, and so am pleased as hell with any ship that includes him in any way, including polyships *ahem-hem*. So despite my Free!love philosophy, MakoRin is the ONE ship that irrationally pisses me off b/c I feel it – “cruelly” – excludes Haru from his two most-special people. (Are these fictional chars? Yes. Is this rational? NO.) Sure, he could get busy with Sou or Kissy (or hell, a bi-curious Sei), but it’s arguable what _clear_ emotional connection he has with any of these folks (Sou the most interesting of these, hence the premise of this fic).

So! By forcing this on myself, I’ve found MakoRin is a HOOT. Rin’s bluster, cockiness and yet vulnerability are a sorta lovely match for Mako’s gentleness, patience, strength. Hope I’m doing ‘em justice, PLEASE let me know if you disagree! And I believe they’d be even better in a, say, poly arrangement *cough* ;)

ALSO: Makoto’s [“light nighttime reading”](http://www.hawking.org.uk/a-brief-history-of-time.html) (BWAHAHAHA)


	14. One’s NOT the loneliest number

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chap is dedicated to the one-and-only 27kb aka keicchi (you'll have to tell me how I did ;P). Things get twistier and a little farce-ier, and somehow I TOTALLY can see Gou hooking up with this particular lady...
> 
> Love you gals/guys to bits and like Mako, I don't have the words for how kind your feedback is <3

They folded into each other in the accommodating depths of his convalescent bed on the hearth, Mike pulling the beautiful redhead to him like the moon compels the tides. Like he was a magnet, and this mysterious man had no choice but to come to him – and his face showed a stunned surprise, a look like he was as bewitched by the Englishman as the Englishman was by him.

“Ah – I – I have to confess that I, I don’t make a practice of this sort of thing –” Mike stuttered, breathless and on the edge of some sort of madness, the beautiful man _everywhere,_ over him, on him, around him, filling the spaces where he wasn’t, sheets of shining flaming hair falling around their faces and hiding the rest of the room from view. It was his face, his face that was all Mike could see, it was the sun that his flower turned helplessly toward, lunging up to find _those lips_ with his own, shocked at the perfection of their union. Soft, to start; the smaller man fallen down to him like a shooting star, lips closed, softest, sliding gently against each other.

Rob pulled slowly up, braced on both elbows; his otherworldly eyes moving, always moving over the Englishman’s face, seemingly as bent on memorization as Mike had been afraid to do earlier. He smiled, slowly, revealing a wholly unexpected sight – sharp teeth – _shark’s teeth –_ the teeth of some sort of creature of legend. And again Mike was certain he had crossed some barrier into Faerie when he was carried over the threshold of this cabin. _No_ ordinary man smiled like that – !

The redhead reached a tentative hand down, drew along an eyebrow with a shy fingertip, followed the line of his cheek around to his wide mouth, where Mike was somehow compelled to grant it entrance, sucking lightly then eagerly as Rob paired that finger with another.

Slid them … oh so confidently, so smoothly … in, out, shallow, deep … picking up a steady rhythm –

Red eyes locked with green, burning and narrowing with startled and wide –

And as if in a dream, Mike reached hands up, held that fine-boned wrist, guided it as it moved, impelled it to travel farther, to plunge _deeper_ into his hot, wet mouth, before he clamped with vicelike insistence …

… and sucked, desperately, eyes wet with sudden tears he did not understand.

All he understood was the need – the throb – the unfulfilled _ache_ between his legs that could be denied no longer.

Time, which had paused in a sort of dream-state, sped-up to a near-frantic degree, both men racing to catch up to some moment ever out of reach. Words and actions spilled out in an overlapping cascade –

“Michael – is this alright – have you –”

“No! No, I have…I have not, but – but I WANT it, I…” Gasped, those traitorous tears quivering in his eyes. Rob reached out – so, so gentle – brushed them away. “But, but you! Rob…Robert, have, have you…”

A dark look passed across the lovely face above him, and Mike was suddenly, coldly afraid. “Shhh…. It isn’t important, now, love.” A firm, hard kiss, points of those uncanny teeth punctuating each move like a subtle threat. “ _Now_ is important, YOU are important, you’re _everything…_ ”

And he was moving, was almost gliding down Mike’s trembling form in the tangled nest of blankets, eyes somehow never straying from his, finally stopping at his manhood. Manhood that needed no assistance to rise – already flushed, red, at least doubled in size, standing insistent – and demanding. Demanding of something Mike was not even certain how to fulfill, but for overseen and overheard lewdness in barracks, on training grounds, below-decks, a fair amount of which was directed firmly at him though his officer status prevented actual acts. Innocent innuendo from servants on his estate; even the blatant rutting of his farm beasts.

And – and – the wet, insistent tip, behind him, prodding at his entrance _and pushing in –_

Mike jerked as if possessed, his sudden move shoving that massive length fully into Rob’s mouth where he had just begun to attend to it. He fell back, startled, coughing into a fist in some sort of reflexive reaction … and Mike bolted upright, horrified. To harm another, this lovely one, as HE had been harmed –

He seized Rob’s upper arms, squeezed. “Oh, I am so terribly, terribly sorry! Please! Are you alright? Please excuse me, I am no better than that _savage!_ ” And he roared, the word torn from his throat like a cancer, collapsing his forehead onto the other man’s shoulder in sudden weakness. To his immense surprise, one arm tentatively rose to his back, then the other, and his savior held him, so gently, just encircled him in the safe cage of his strong arms as he cried, and his tears turned to sobs, hot and painful, burning into the soft deerskin of his shoulder.

“Shhh….shhh….it’s over, dear….over. He can’t hurt you now.... I made sure of that. He won’t hurt _anyone_ ever again.” Those fine hands, stroked up, down, never ceasing. “You’re with me now, you hear? _No one_ will ever hurt you again, now that you’re with me.”

Mike’s sobs slowed, drew out, faltered, quieted…

The hands moved to gentle pats…

He raised his head from the safety of his shoulder, turned that fine chin with a finger, _fell into_ that mouth, mouth ringed with danger, just plunged in and discovered it with his own large hot tongue, and Rob let him…

…let him switch their angle, turn their orientation, allowed himself to be lowered into Mike’s bed…

Allowed Mike to reach blindly for the rawhide strings at his waist, pull them apart violently…

Allowed him to seize the soft deerskin trousers in two fists, to work them down in fits and starts, high breathless gasps painting the close air above his head…

Allowed him to take a perfectly formed thigh in each of his large hands, running up their smooth and almost womanly length, securing them at his shoulders, his leather jerkin rising and falling hectically, head turning helplessly against the blankets –

Let him kneel above, suffused with such a feeling of power his head swam with it –

Let him spit into a hand and prepare his throbbing length quickly, haphazardly, as the lowest cries of “Michael … Michael …” drifted to him from the bed, hands splayed across his bare chest –

Let him lean forward for the moment, _this moment, his man,_ as he made contact and _SHOVED –_

 _“Ahhhh!!”_ Sound of sheer gasping agony, yanked from Rob’s throat as he scrabbled at Mike’s forearms, eyes and mouth wide, cheeks in full-flush. “No – no, Mike, no, you have – have to sl-slow –”

“Oh!” Mike gasped in some kind of terrible unintended echo, in his fluster losing his precarious grip and….

Falling….

Fully into the man beneath him, the man who choked and struggled to breathe in the crush of sudden stabbing pain –

And behind them, from the door – “Alright – what in the holy name of GOD are you doing to my friend, you _bastard??”_

*

Gou slaps the folder down on her coffee table with finality and leans her – yep, ohhh yes, flushed – face to the side against her beloved chaise lounge. Ho-lee _hell,_ what a sadly, sadly, deliciously cock-tease-y chapter. Her poor, poor bro; art imitating life to some creepy degree, it seems he just can’t catch a break, even in a romance novel.

She barks out a sudden laugh. MAN, what she wouldn’t give to get to see his reaction to this one, as cruel and little-sister-y as that is. It almost makes her wish they had a REAL book club, with real in-the-flesh meetings (complete with real booze and treats, of course). This was just getting too fun.

She tips the rest of her beer down her throat, the cool yeastiness a relief, and settles back into the comfort of her lounge. Without any conscious thought, she unbuttons her jeans, pulls down the zipper, slides her small hand inside. An unmistakable warmth pools there, but this warmth is demanding, insistent, throbbing, knocking down her door and if she doesn’t answer soon, Lord knows what’ll happen.

Damn romance novels.

Damn GAY DUDE romance novels.

Well, bits are bits, and lovely bits are certainly lovely bits – even if they’re on guys, and even if some of these happen to belong to her quasi-bro. Why fight it?

She walks the perimeter of her hot zone with an idle finger, feels where it’s interested to one side of the line but wildly buzzing on the other, like a power line down in a storm and arcing sparks over the pavement. She slides two fingers in, tours her inner “sanctum” quickly, dipping them into her entrance and thrusting languidly for a few minutes, squeezing her hand in deeper with the strong muscles of her thighs. She’s beginning to hear the softest sound from her lips, no words, not even a tone – something she just likes to release, like the deepest sigh after a long hard day.

The buzzing sparks of her “power line” are gently gathering and receding, gathering and receding as she slowly tightens and releases her thighs, rocking softly on the couch. She blinks her big eyes closed and is surprised to find herself in the cabin from the last chapter. More specifically, in the _scene_ from the last chapter. Lying prone in the dimness, in a confusion of blankets, red hair spread around her flushed face, as she gazes up at –

The beautiful, naked English Lieutenant from the dirty minds of Nanase Haruka and Yamazaki Sousuke, braced with hungry and almost feral intensity over her, her legs on his broad shoulders. A man she can visualize even more clearly than the skilled and poetic words of the draft provide, as she has _certainly_ seen this man before –

Doing the widest array of _unspeakable_ and undeniably hot things to her beloved big bro in living color, immortalized forever online and in on-demand adult video.

The fantasy is so real, she can practically feel the stretch in her hamstrings as he leans forward, bending her in half; smell the ghost of dark chocolate on the air (a particularly nice touch); hearhis hungry breaths as he reaches large, somehow graceful hands down –

And she tenses, preparing to wrench herself from the scene –

Then blows her eyes full-wide as he threads two fingers in, smoothly diving down and _around –_ not atop – her clit, teasing, playful, alternating sweeps and quick shivers, alternating sudden dashes to the summit with the slowest floating descents, until she’s full-on _writhing_ on the blankets (on the lounge) in the sweats of her multiple approaches. Fantasy-Michael stills his scary-skilled hand, leans to her face, catches her jaw with his free hand, kisses her deep and long. His hand leaps in for the final push, his tongue plumbs her mouth, his other hand scoops under her shirt to circle one angry-erect nipple –

And she’s coming – _hard hard harder than in goddamn forever goddamn it._

She comes back to herself, staring at her high ceiling and panting lightly, damp hand pressed against her bare abdomen, other hand back against her forehead like some damn Jane Austen heroine. “Phew! Well, pen’s mightier than the sword. _A-_ gain.” She snorts, only a little bit sad no one was here to witness such a totally perfect quip.

*

Freshly showered, she’s feeling great and – STILL – horny as hell. How – _how_ are these ridiculous _gay male_ romance writers getting her so hot and bothered? What is this new devilry? She has a sneaking suspicion Rei’s “two great tastes that taste great together” are gonna sell like damn HOTCAKES, and as the money-lady, can find nothing to complain about in that prediction.

She pads back into the living room, swaddled in her fave silky kimono, wet hair twisted in a turban. She snags her cell from the coffee table and opens her contacts, clicks “Ms. M”. Smiles slyly as the phone rings, and is almost unreasonably happy when she answers. It’s Saturday night, after all, and she could be doing something else, anything else, someONE else. But she still answers for Gou, and she’s smiling.

“Heyyyy, sweetie!” Such a deceptively soft voice, the voice of a kindergarten teacher or choir director, maybe. Voice to sing you to sleep. Not the voice you would think capable of cooing the dirtiest, most-debauched, most deliciously _unspeakable_ things directly into someone’s ear as she has them tied firmly to a, say, barstool, hands really-weirdly gentle as they slip the blindfold on, turning the world black as she sets the vibrator aside and the strap-on makes its first how-do-you-do from behind…

Gou, happily, knows otherwise.

“Hi, Miho!” She’s the weirdest combination of snarky and schoolgirl-shy as she keeps smiling into the phone, sitting absentmindedly on the lounge and gazing at the little lights of Tokyo through her apartment windows. “How are you this fine night? Got any, uh, interesting clients on the schedule?”

A musical, light laugh. “Oh, _god,_ honey, I had a day. What the fuck is it about Saturdays is what I wanna know… Must be all the big exec-types needing to get their guilt out after firing the week’s sad-sacks, so they schedule ‘shiatsu’ appointments, and bam – hell- _o,_ money in the bank for Mistress M here!” That laugh again. Gou could listen to it on repeat all night. She thinks part of that is the fabled “honeymoon period” cliché thing, but on the other hand it really is just … pretty.

“Sheesh.” She frees her long hair from the towel, flips it to the non-phone side, softly scrunches it dry. “Ya ever get tempted to, oh, ‘forget’ the real assholes after you’ve got ‘em strapped up in some really complex and painful thing? An iron maiden, maybe?”

“You mean the band? Love them. Think Black Sabbath had a better live-show though.”

Gou’s snorting. “Har-de-har, oh my GOD you are a block of genuine grade-A cheese.”

Rapid voice-shift. Sultry. “Hmmm. But you _like_ cheese, right? Especially when it’s hot … creamy … you dip in the fondue pot and scoop it up and it _oooozes_ down your throat…”

Damn. She really should talk to Nagisa about signing Miho in some capacity at ReadFree. If nothing else, it’d be a great excuse to see her during business hours.

“Um…” she clears her throat. “Um, well, _about_ that. You, uh, never answered my question, _Miho._ Would you happen to be free tonight?”

Looooong pause. Gou knows she’s being toyed with. She strangely doesn’t mind. “Hmmm, dear…. Well, free for what, exactly?”

Gou sighs and abandons the last bits of her dignity. “Oh, the usual. Your place. Say… an hour?”

Angry, put-upon high-school girlfriend voice. The sheer variety of acts Miho could whip out on demand was a little astonishing. “You just want me for my body. I know it. You don’t wanna go out, or buy me dinner, or even _talk_ to me! What’s a girl to think!” Perfectly-frustrated little huff.

“Oh, we can go out for dinner and I _may_ even talk to you too. I just need your body first.” Gou shrugs reasonably, playing her part to the fullest in their weirdo little charade.

Total flip back to Miho’s every-day, sweet, genuinely amused. “Yeah, alright. Deal.” Her musical chuckle. “See ya in 60.”

“See ya.”

Gou disconnects, heart skipping away totally out of proportion to their conversation, big-dumb grin on her face. Should she feel like this with someone she’s known for a grand total of a month? Someone she met at a special bondage night at the local ladies’ bar? Someone with a discreetly- and wildly-successful career as, well, um?

Oh, hell, yes.

She pops off the lounge and beelines for her room when her cell thunders with the nasty death-metal that’s her current ringtone. She glances down and smirks, hits “Talk” as she heads into her big closet.

“Whattup, Rin? OR – shall I say, _Robert…?_ ” She honks her trademark guffaw as she thumbs back to where she’s pretty sure her tightest black-vinyl jeans are hiding.

“Shut the fuck UP, _Kate,_ ” he hisses, and she’s sorta thrilled at the clear embarrassment, tight in his voice.

“Really, though,” she presses on relentlessly. “Shame about your sexual-predator tendencies. You really should get that looked at –”

“Hey!!” he’s roaring back, upset. “Uh, if you _bothered to read it,_ you’ll note I get myself pretty fucking awkwardly mini-raped too, so, you can just fucking drop that _right now –_ ”

“Rin! Rin! Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” She stops, head down, immediately sorry at the real pain in his voice tangled up in the embarrassment. Oh, dear; this book could hurt him – he was so sensitive as it was, and contrary to the truly awful Cher song, she really wasn’t sure if he believed in life after love. Basically, Rin WAS love. He _lived_ for love. And like a little kid whose brain wasn’t quite ready to know that Santa Claus was just a fantasy and not a real magical fat guy, Rin’s belief in the powers and tenets of love bordered on the dangerous, no matter how book-smart he was. It worried her, a little; made her hope it wouldn’t get him hurt.

“I didn’t mean to tease you. And hey, honey, it’s just a story, right? Just a story. Something a couple of pervert guys are dreaming up to make a buck. No big deal.” She slowly pulls the jeans from the rod and puts them on the closet-door hook, shuffles out to her bureau.

A suspiciously uncharacteristic silence. “Yeah. So… I actually am dying over here needing the next release. I’m like some lame-ass junkie or something.” Nervous laugh. “Do you have it?”

She finds a favorite sweater in the dresser, big and chunky and frayed and irresponsibly off-the-shoulder. “Yeah, I do! Not done with it yet, actually just finished the, uh, part you mentioned.” She’s suddenly embarrassed for him, for the weirdly intimate and vulnerable moment they both witnessed (and – that she subsequently and explosively got-off to) – and oh yes _that never actually happened_.

Rin clears his throat. “If I’m over in 10, can I come borrow it? Just for tonight. I could even get it to you tomorrow, first thing.” Pause. “I just gotta find out what the fuck happens to me. To us.”

“Oh, big brother!” Her heart suddenly swells for him. “Sure! You need to be _really_ fast, I’m leaving ASAP. Gotta be somewhere. But sure, of course!”

“Thanks, sis – !” And the line is dead. Gou blinks for a few moments, nonplussed. Sounds like a full-blown addiction is in progress here and her bro’s practically assigning this thing supernatural powers. _Great._

She hurries out to the front hall and slides the folder back into its nondescript manila travel envelope, closes the catch. Lifting off a Post-it Note from the hutch by the door, she sticks it on then snickers as she jots “BURN AFTER READING!!! Lol not really of course - love you bro xoxo G.” Then she pivots and heads back to her room – she wasn’t gonna get all sexy just standing here.

*

Rin projects he’ll make it to Gou’s in 10 and ends up doing it in seven. He isn’t _proud_ of this, exactly, or what he had to do and who he undoubtedly endangered to get there, but like the Blues Brothers said, he’s on a mission from GOD, dammit. And nothing’s gonna stand between him and this story.

He eases the front door of her condo open with his key, the whirr of a hairdryer buzzing away far back in her master-bath. Perfect. Maybe he can get in, get it and get out without bugging her, making her late for whatever hot Sapphic shit she has in store this evening. (Rin, on the other hand, is thrilled to be able to take his latest obsession home with him to the quiet of his little apartment – after a particularly uncomfortable day on a group-sex shoot, he’s utterly exhausted from every angle, ready to curl up in bed. ALONE.)

He’s unreasonably happy when his eyes fall on the envelope helpfully laid out for him, with his sis’ typically snarky little note. Then – his eyes narrow when he sees her stylishly-giant slouchy bag on the table beside it –

And her weekly planner jutting out the top.

Glancing reflexively down the hall – and amazed again at such a high-tech woman’s preference for such a low-tech time-management tool – he yanks it out and flicks it open, scanning the slots for anything unusual.

Anything featuring the words “Nanase,” “Haruka,” “Yamazaki,” “Sousuke,” or any derivation of same.

And he can hardly believe his luck – there, on Monday, in a bare 48 hours, she’s neatly block-printed “19:00 – Dinner w Haru, Sou, Nagi & Rei @ Dolce Vento (ask Miho? ;P).” He blinks for a moment – at the improbability of it, the chumminess of the nicknames, the sudden pull in his chest that _he’s_ not in that list with _his_ “date” (and just WHO is this “Miho” anyway?). Then he’s whipping a Post-it off the stack, copying the info, stuffing it in his pocket. He scribbles another note that he leaves by her purse before creeping out the door:

_Heya sis – thanks so much for the loan, sorry to flip out on ya :/. Hope you have a really good time with your “mystery gal” and REMEMBER, don’t do anything I would do (on camera that is…)._

_Love ya <3_

_Rin_

***

Whooo-ey! So someone made a great point that why the hell don’t we let Gou in on the sexy-time action, too? Granted, she’s solo here (unless fantasies count ;)) but this is clearly a lady with an active social life. It was also a totally gratuitous and too-good-to-avoid chance to get Miho in here, having moved on from (or never done?) teaching and instead raking it in as an S&M Mistress.

‘Cause WHY not? ;D

Other than that, we also set the stage for an inevitable MakoRin stakeout to finally uncover just WHO are these mystery men tormenting them so??? I’m sure nothing ridiculous or bad or silly could come of that. Right? Right??

And why not – [something Gou might wear](http://picture-cdn.wheretoget.it/0bi8n3-l-610x610-jacket--shirt-sweater-knit+sweater-shoulder-shoulder+sweater-belt-ivory-cream-folded-long+sleeves-jeans-coat-leather+jacket-zipper-collar-brown-dark+chocolate-dark+chocolate+brown-.jpg) heading out to get some with Ms. M :)


	15. Saturday night’s alright for fighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put the inevitable stakeout off here - but hope you enjoy this little SouHaru interlude anyway, complete with Haru bouncing around like a total dork. Yup ;D
> 
> Thx to the inimitable zankyounofuckyou for the cigar scenario and to ALL of you for just being you <3

Things are NOT going well.

The flames of inspiration are dead, the muses have left the building, Haru’s hit a wall so hard (and so repeatedly) he’s surprised his nose isn’t broken. It may be as bad for Yamazaki as it is for him. He wouldn’t know; the big doofus exiled him to the living room about an hour ago and since then the only indications of his progress (or plight) have been a disjointed series of sighs, mutterings and murderous profanities drifting from the study.

Haru’s beloved ‘80s synth-pop – the sure-fire musical solution when he needs something lame and happily, aggressively mindless to carry him over a creative hump – isn’t even doing it for him. It’s only making him start to hate the entire nation of Great Britain, in general. He bats his DJ headphones off his head and stares morosely at the flat expanse of white just _gleaming_ across his screen, mocking him, practically laughing at him.

He flicks his eyes to the lower-right corner of his screen for about the 72nd time, confirming that – yes – the same angry red _X_ blocks off the little wireless symbol. Nope, still NO Internet; his wise and beneficent writing partner aka benevolent overlord has decided – as he apparently insists when “creating” – that it introduces “dangerous” “distractions” that “interfere” with the “structure” needed in his “process” bla-di-bla-di-BLAH.

Like a horror-movie heroine flip-flipping the light-switch after the psycho killer’s cut the power, Haru viciously fires https://www.tumblr.com/ into the search-bar (thinking _pink_ and _lavender_ ).

Gets a warning message.

Eyes his beat-up old phone, its pathetic-by-today’s standard 3G service utterly serviceable for the simple connection he would like to make…

Haru shoots up and marches with grim determination to his study. The door is halfway ajar and as he slowly pushes it open, interrupts a dense fogbank of swirling, acrid smoke.

Yamazaki’s at his giant teak master-of-the-universe desk, hunched over on his obscenely-pampering desk chair in a way Haru can tell he’s getting zero comfort, staring angrily at his desktop monitor. Elbows on the desk, chin in his hands; he’d look like a pissed-off little kid, if it weren’t for the cigar smoldering away between his lips.

Haru glides his direction, shaking his head, detours behind him when he gets close enough to see the big man’s eyes widen. “If you don’t open a window, you’re gonna asphyxiate in here,” he says reasonably as he goes down the line of the big window-wall behind the desk, somehow finding and working the catch on the first try and cranking each out a few inches. The cool evening air feels delicious, rushing in to combat the staleness of Yamazaki’s cigar. An ambulance passes far below, the siren twirling away farther up the foothills.

He turns back to find Yamazaki has swiveled the chair to watch him, has probably been watching him this entire time, head deeply leaning on one elbow on the desk, other hand resting on his jeans-clad knee, teal squinting directly at him through the lingering smoke like two gun-sights. Damn ridiculous clichéd-as-all-hell cigar at home in a smile Haru can’t quite explain … smug? Bemused? He isn’t sure.

He paces over, stops directly in front of him, stares down for a beat. Yamazaki’s still not saying a word. “You _know_ , you really shouldn’t smoke these, either. They’ll kill ya,” he suggests as he slowly puts one bare foot then the other on either side of his thighs, standing then settling slowly into his lap, reaching up and plucking the cigar from his mouth. Yamazaki just lets him, totally, utterly passive.

Fuck it.

Haru wraps his free hand around the back of the big man’s neck – the parallels to his first dream-encounter with him flashing into his mind – and experimentally wraps his lips around the damp cigar end, inhales. Yamazaki’s eyes widen at exactly the same rate as his chest fills with the nasty stuff and the parallel is so unexpectedly funny, he’s giggling and coughing smoke into his partner’s semi-astonished face as his eyes water and two giant hands are instantly around his back (one at his shoulder blades, one at the lowest curve).

“God _damn_ , Haru, the fuck are you doing!” he’s half-yelling – then they both realize what was said, and pull back to look at each other in surprise, Haru’s coughs and giggles tapering away. Yamazaki’s hands tighten.

…and Haru haphazardly deposits the cigar in an ashtray (thank God, Yamazaki’d have a cat if he fucked up his desk) and dives in, leading with his hands as they travel up the elegant line of his jaw, fold around his broad cheekbones, following with his open lips, Yamazaki more than ready to receive him. Both tasting of smoke, of burning, sort of like fall. Bitter.

Their kiss starts breathless and only gets more frantic, the hands at Haru’s back becoming vicelike arms squeezing him like a damn snake, Haru rocking their two undeniable erections-in-progress together. He finally pulls back with a wet smack and rests his forehead in the bend of Yamazaki’s firm neck, where his thin black V-neck sweater (…cashmere?) meets the ridiculous lushness of his upper chest, his collarbone. It’s a very, very nice place to be for the moment.

Yamazaki speaks up first. Unsurprisingly….though Haru notes with some weird satisfaction that he needs to clear his throat. “Again. Nanase. What the fuck was that all about, if you don’t mind? You always get this horny when you have writer’s block?” His chest is moving too fast, Haru can tell; he has a front-row seat.

“Hmmm. If you don’t mind I’d like to call rank with a question of my own, please.” He raises up, looks into his eyes, feels a genuine, tiny smile. “’Haru’?” He puts both hands on his chest, on that addictively-soft sweater (so he’s a texture whore … so what?), pins him with his eyes as he watches a flush bloom across his cheeks. “Are we – at _that stage_ in our relationship, _Sou_?” His voice is light and genuinely amused – no trace of mockery – and he even withholds the “-chan” his id desperately begs to add.

The big man is so red he looks sick, gazing towards the study door. His voice is shockingly quiet. “Sousuke. If you could use ‘Sousuke,’ that would be fine.” Haru watches him swallow and suddenly wants to taste his throat, but again refrains. “Do … do you prefer ‘Haruka’ or ‘Haru’?”

Haru can’t take it anymore. He darts in, fast, just the tiniest lick from his jaw down to where the black point of the V ends, just the tip of his tongue. Sousuke gasps.

“…that’s a funny thing, actually.” He’s turned his head, nestled sideline into the soft broad chest, and those vicelike arms aren’t vices at all; they’re like some weird illusion – Haru can swear they aren’t there, they’re so soft, but each breath out and he’s reminded of their faintest presence. “I really like the SOUND of ‘Haruka’. You know, the sorta _aesthetics_ of it. _Haaaa-ruuuu-kaaaa._ Just fun to say.” He hears Sousuke snort above him, something about “damn artists.”

“But it’s just not ‘me.’ I’m a pretty girly guy, you know –” That snort from above him again – “so I’m not, like, averse to ‘girly’ names or something. But I guess it’s just too _grand._ I’m not grand. I’m more of a what you see is what you get.” He shrugs in his arm-cage. “A ‘Haru’.”

“Mmmmm….” he hears, so, so satisfied above him, like Sousuke has just polished off the biggest slab of Kobe-beef eaten-off the abs of Japan’s Next Top Male Model, or something (???). Pure, to the marrow satisfaction. “ _Haru…_ …” Slow. Like he’s tasting it, sure as he would taste that steak, sure as he would bend forward to lick the juices off the taut skin….

_Dear GOD what is with me tonight??_

He lifts his head, slowly, suspiciously, to be met with the look he thinks is Yamazaki’s – _Sousuke’s_ – best, that he remembers wishing he used more often, the full-face crinkle of his genuine smile. Then he’s gently being rocked-out to arm’s length in the big man’s lap, like he’s a kid getting ready to launch into his list for Santa.

“So, _Haru,_ tell me. When you’re alone and working on something and it is just _shit,_ nothing’s working, what do you do?”

Haru blinks up at him. “Um. If it’s not too late usually I’ll head to the pool.”

Sousuke’s shaking his head sadly. “Nope. Look at the time, it’s after 22:00. Pool’s closed.”

Haru shoots him a reflexive glare (no way that fucker’s taking his pool away) on principle. Oh, he sees where this is going … he thinks. “Ooookay, coffee shop.”

Sousuke’s stroking his hands up and down his back, comfortingly. “Not tonight. You’re so frustrated, you wanna mix it up, you don’t want to sit staring at your laptop _again._ ”

Well, that took care of his NEXT answer involving his laptop and a particular activity with a certain person he delicately decides not to mention… “Well, shit, Sou, if porn is off the table, I would go to my favorite club and catch whoever was playing.”

Sousuke raises his eyebrows and slides his hands down, and suddenly they’re walking across the study and out the door, Haru clinging to him in this unexpected change of orientation like – again – a needy grabby (not-nude) koala.

“Do I need to put some kind of trashy-hipster shit on before they’ll let me in?” he asks, seemingly steering them towards the master-bedroom. Haru wriggles until he’s let back down, grabs one of his giant paws and turns them back toward the front door.

“Oh, fuck ‘em – you look fabulous.”

*

They. TOTALLY. Luck. Out.

The utterly improbable is true – one of Haru’s all-time sentimental favorites, Shonen Knife, is doing a club tour and just _happens_ to be on the bill. Haru almost takes it as a sign from the universe – first this bizarre boundary breakdown between him and Yamazaki (and _Sousuke_ ), then the big guy basically _taking him out_ clubbing on a Saturday night when they were supposed to be writing, which was SCREAMING “date” to him. Then to top it off, the sweetest pop-punk girl group (oh, that he’s memorized backwards and forwards) just _happens_ to be playing? Yup, some pretty spooky / destiny stuff going on right here.

 _If_ he believed in flaky stuff like that.  

He leads the way, smirking faintly at how deeply uncomfortable Sousuke seems the moment they set foot in the line to get in. It’s not that he doesn’t _fit in,_ really; Sousuke looks fucking FANTASTIC, the man could casually stroll into the White House and fist-bump the U.S. Prez. Haru knows he’s not alone in that assessment – it’s like there’s a little force-field he doesn’t even know he’s putting out, something about the way the black of his hair is so perfectly mussed but the black of his sweater is flawless; the way the dark blue jeans curve around an ass and thighs and calves that give people double-takes, but do so discreetly, like “did I just see…?”; the way his height and the pale silence of his eyes say DANGER but it’s the sort of danger you want more of.

Sousuke, however, seems to be feeling none of this confidence. To Haru’s immense amusement, he’s being used as the big-guy’s safe-person; he had no idea this harmless and actually-pretty-cheerful dive-y club would compel him to hover _right behind_ Haru, so close it almost seems like something dirty’s going on. As they finally get to the cashier to pay the cover, Haru reaches to find his wallet in his messenger bag and he notices Sousuke’s slipped a large, warm hand against his back, under his slouchy _Flashdance-_ style off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and along the waistband of his leggings. It feels heavy … and yet he doesn’t know why he didn’t notice it before. While Haru’s distracted Sousuke’s beating him to the punch and pulling his own wallet out of his back-pocket to pay their cover.

“Have fun, you two,” the cute tattooed cashier coos to them, winking as he lays a stamp on their hands.

Haru stabs Sousuke with an indignant look as they work their way into the room, his act of “generosity” apparently blowing all his “scary dive-bar worries” away. “You didn’t have to cover me, you know,” he growls. “I AM capable of the occasional act of self-reliance, feeding, dressing, bathing. You know. I’m no kept woman –”

“HA!” He doesn’t even let Haru get through his complaint before honking out a noise of total enjoyment, once again in a total chauvinist-y move firmly steering them to the bar and into two free stools. He leans onto one elbow to look up at his face.

“Well, I already know you aren’t a big fan of wine and you’re a lightweight, your words. So what does that leave?”

Haru stares blankly down at him. “Water. Duh.”

Sousuke’s sitting up. “Ah, no, no. Not for breaking writer’s block.”

Haru “pffft”s. “What, is there some ‘magical mystical alcoholic cure’ you learned from some shaman in, um, Pittsburgh?” He dissolves into giggles, having no idea why this image is so damn funny and coming up eventually to see two tall bottles of beer in front of them. It’s so much like a real magic trick he just blinks.

“We’re at a dive, we’re gonna hear a punk band, guess that means it’s _gotta_ be beer, even if I’d usually be ordering us some Scotch.” He gathers both bottles up between the fingers of one hand in another magic-trick-looking-thing Haru’s embarrassed to be impressed by.

“Um. Well, guess we’ll just have to do that next time,” he says lamely as they pivot on their stools to leave, and Sousuke stares at him a little too long.

They thread deeper into the crowd than Haru would expect Sousuke would be OK with, slotting themselves in somehow as tattooed guys finish setting colorful gear up onstage and excited conversation buzzes around them. Haru holds his chilled bottle to his chest, the thrill of anticipation working through him, the thought of the joy and fun that awaits him – _them_ – pouring through his body and making him bounce excitedly. Sousuke stares down at him, a crooked smile parting his face.

“Oh my god … Haru. Just looked for a second and could’ve _sworn_ I was with a 12-year-old girl. Jesus, don’t scare me like that, alright?”

Haru rolls his eyes and steals Sousuke’s beer in his own little slight-of-hand, tipping it back in a long, long pull that goes down smooth and complicated and paralyzes his throat for just a second. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and firmly presses the bottle back into Sousuke’s chest.

“Do NOT knock 12-year-old girls, dude.” He makes the forked “I’m watching you, punk” gesture with two fingers, trying to inject as much threat into it as he can (without laughing), before turning smugly back to the stage as the houselights fall around them. He has a thrill of nameless, weird power at the sensation of those eyes still fixed on him from the side, though he won’t turn to see.

The Knife are, of course, completely adorably fantastic. Naoko, Ritsuko and Emi play their fucking _hearts_ out despite being wayyy past the age women are “supposed” to, let alone be onstage at all, goddamn patriarchal bullshit. He drinks up their completely darling Pop-Art dresses and go-go boots and covets them deeply, pogoing madly to every song and dragging Sou down by a muscular arm to yell facts about their history in his ear or sing along to songs with particularly sentimental value, about concrete animals at the playground or being lazy or just the unique joys of being a cat. Stuff that resonates with him on some weird spiritual level.

And Sou keeps gently smiling at him, and has a subtle hand out – nothing pushy, more like a safety thing, keeping track of him in case he can’t keep track of himself. And he seems to always have a cold beer in hand, that never has a chance to get warm, and with each tip of his head back things seem to make more and more sense. His mission is clear: he’s here to have fun, and enjoy these fabulous women onstage, and hopefully the big dark man beside him can do that too.

And there’s another man on the other side of him, a guy he can’t get a good look at in the dimness of the club, but he can tell he’s big – as tall and as built as Sou, easy. Big; blond, longish wavy hair. Haru thinks he’s got a big, easy smile as they all move to the addictive beat and the guy _definitely_ turns to him for the first time. Yells in English over the music: American, maybe; Australian?

“Hey, are they hot, or what? Cougars, sure, but that just makes ‘em more eager, right?”

Haru just stares, understanding every word through the haze of the beer and the noise and the lights. Oh, please. He gives his championship-best eye-roll and tries to turn back to the stage.

The guy isn’t done. “Well, you probably don’t have to get ‘em eager, kid like you. Bet you almost hafta _beat_ ‘em off, huh?” And he leans in, close, yet seemingly offhand, something potent on his breath as he touches Haru’s shoulder and gives him that smile.

Haru’s _done_. He turns away towards Sou (only wavering a little bit), gets on tiptoe, murmurs “…bathroom…” in his ear. Then he finishes his turn and carefully heads towards the Men’s.

He finds it empty, shoots a thanks up to someone, heads to a urinal –

–and has the breath knocked out of him when big hands push him into the wall.

“…the FUCK!” he’s snarling in Japanese once he’s able to breathe again – just because this slimy prick is using a language he fully understands, doesn’t mean he deserves the dignity of sharing verbal interaction. It’s _that_ guy – Haru just knows by the tacky dramatic irony and that same sour too-strong alcoholic smell that’s hanging around him and the sheer size of his assailant who’s fitting himself chummily into and against Haru as he mercilessly squishes him into the cold tile wall. Haru feels, like the punchline to an old and very unfunny joke, the unmistakable throb of an angry hard-on shoving against his ass (thankfully) through layers of fabric.

“I’ll bet you do this a lot, pretty little thing like you, dancing around at all the clubs and picking up your next fuck,” the fucker breathes, his voice all tight with excitement and Haru decides, fuck this, fuck this, fuck this.

He wiggles and twists and worms his way face-front in the guy’s tight grip, seeing what would be a pathetically-eager expression in any other context as he looms over him. “Even better!” he says as he scrabbles to pull Haru’s leggings down, and Haru dives up and jabs his thumbs in both the guy’s eyes with all his might, and that’s when he hears the Men’s door slam open and Sou’s unmistakable roared “HEY!” echo through the room.

Everything’s confusing for a while as the guy falls away from Haru, screaming a string of truly nasty English profanities; as Haru staggers around him, not giving him a second look; as suddenly he’s in a familiar, dark, soft spot as Sou presses him briefly to his chest, lifts him back to look him over with almost scary intensity; then he’s gone, heading back over to the swearing, gasping pile of a man, crouching over him and saying something Haru can’t hear as a curious (female) head peeks in the door and Haru leans against the wall, feeling faint.

“Are you – are you guys OK?” the woman asks, sorta avid ( _fight in the Men’s room!_ ), eyes big behind chunky glasses.

“Yeah. You know gay guys. Always screwing in the bathroom,” Haru says. He thinks he meant it to come out ironic, but it ends up being just sorta … dead. She titters, pats his arm with an “Alright, then,” and heads back into the club. Haru just stares as Sou finishes whatever mysterious threatening thing he’s saying to the pathetic lump on the floor then uncoils, stalks over to him. Flicks eyes to him, the door. Haru nods.

*

He’s all accommodating on their way out, like a “proper” date – holding the door of the club for Haru, walking close with a hand just ghosting against his opposite hip, opening the door of the Jag for him when they get there, closing it for him once he’s safely tucked in. It’s ear-ringingly-silent in the car after he gets in too, the contrast to the jacked-up noise of the club jarring and Haru’s head still untrustworthy after the beer. He tilts his head back to the soft headrest and swallows, feeling Sou’s eyes lying softly on him.

“Did you want any of that…?” he asks.

Haru laughs without a trace of humor. “If I could’ve pulled his dick off, it would’ve made my day.”

“Okay then.” Sou faces front, starts the car. The powerful engine purrs. “We’re going to your place this time, if that’s alright…? Where do you live?”

Haru turns to him, curls up in on himself in a little ball on the cushy seat, fastens his seatbelt. “It isn’t far.”

*

Sousuke is surprised how much he likes Haru’s place, and how closely it fits _him_ and his imaginings of being here with him, in this very room. It’s small – his studio, all-purpose room could fit into Sousuke’s bedroom with plenty of room to spare. But it’s sort of like those “tiny houses” that are so trendy on coffee-table books, or even like ships’ living quarters – Haru’s wasted no space, and while he actually has surprisingly-little stuff, what he does have is so thoughtfully arranged and chosen, all bizarre and beautiful and quirky and unexpected and _Haru._

He wanders, drawn to the spines in the bookshelves and the vintage horror-movie posters on the walls and the graceful modern-art mobile suspended mysteriously between two corners of the ceiling. Haru had begun to undress in front of him after pulling out a shirt, some boxers, as unembarrassed as ever, but he gently turned him and pushed him in the direction of his bathroom. “Go ahead – take a soak, I’ll be here,” he said, getting a single eyebrow up in return, something that might’ve been a simple question or maybe an invitation…

He comes out much quicker than Sousuke expects, shutting the bathroom light off and coming over to where he’s sitting comfortably on Haru’s (soft, double, NOT futon) bed, paging through a near-pornographic art book on pools and smiling to himself. He looks small, so small in a big T-shirt with some crazy-looking cartoon fish on the front, his wet hair wrapped in a towel Sousuke would laugh at if the circumstances of the evening were different. As he comes to stand close he sees a little fish print swimming around his boxers. His heart suddenly hurts and he doesn’t know why.

“Come up here…” he says softly, leaning behind to flick the big fluffy comforter down and patting the mattress with his free hand. Haru obediently, silently eases up next to him – _like a cat, so much about this guy is like a cat –_ and slides himself into the offered spot, pulling the cover up. He moves to pull the other side down for Sousuke with a question on his face and he gently shakes his head.

“Nope. Not tonight. Tonight we just relax…” as he works his jeans down, leaving him in his boxers which are perfectly comfortable in the cozy warmth of the little space. He settles next to Haru on top of the comforter, puts his hands behind his head and stares up at the ceiling…

To see _glow in the dark stars_ up there.

He almost dies from the dramatic irony (…?), or maybe perfection. Stars and planets and what must be the sun and something kind of frothy and feathery that he thinks may be the Milky Way. And the part he finds himself suddenly, wordlessly touched by, is the _correctness_ of it – Haru didn’t slap them up there randomly; he can recognize what he’s seeing. He feels a strange longing as he traces the form of his favorite, Orion, the mighty hunter, impressed as he looks up by Haru’s ability to translate 3D space to the limited canvas of his ceiling.

The room is suddenly dark; Haru has silently rolled up and caught his bedside light, and returned to his side. His baritone is softer than Sousuke thinks he’s ever heard it, like they share some weird spell here in his bed, staring up at the strangely-magical glow of the wide sky above.

“Did you ever hear any of the alternate star-stories about Orion?” he asks, like he somehow knows where Sousuke was looking. Maybe it’s his favorite constellation too.

“No. Just the usual macho crap about the Big Bad Bearkiller,” he whispers.

Tiny snort. Sousuke smiles to himself. “It’s cool. If you sorta free your eyes a little bit from what you’re _used_ to seeing you can get it. Umm…” His hand ghosts up, tracing a slim finger into a shape in the air, and Sousuke swears he can follow it almost like Haru’s drawing with a lit sparkler. “Some people say it looks like a _tsuzumi_ drum, if you see the way sides bow out, come into the middle, like an hourglass…” And Sousuke see it, can almost _hear_ the violent heartbeat-sound as the drum is hit.

Haru’s sweeping his finger up now, gracefully and delicately, describing something sweeping away, hanging in a soft curtain; his other hand bends and curves beside it, both together forming something willowy, feminine. “There’s also another interpretation that sees Orion as _Sode Boshi,_ a woman in her full formal kimono-dress – see, the main body of the constellation is her arm out, holding the heavy sleeve…” And Sousuke can not only visualize the lovely woman, a geisha maybe – he sees this woman as Haru, as _Haruka,_ hair sleek and natural and his own but with an orchid tucked behind his ear, a sweep of pearls peeking from the modest neck of the heavy silk garment. Looking up at him behind a painted fan, cobalt eyes radiant and ringed with kohl, tiniest pink lips parting to tell him something –

He jerks from a fantasy that’s becoming dangerously real and angrily stops himself. Tonight is NOT the time for his obsessive thoughts, no matter what his body (and his throbbing cock more specifically) has to say about it. Tonight is for comfort, to make some sort of right for the victimization this slight, delicate, beautiful (…) man seems to have visited on him at every turn – though he apparently was doing a pretty good job taking care of business when Sousuke showed up…

He rolls his head to the side, gazes down at where Haru’s hilarious turban has come askew, shiny black strands escaping and poking out around his small face, sleepy and composed in the dimness of his room. Sousuke wants so badly to reach over, grab the towel in his hand, scrub his hair dry like a little kid (maybe pull him over onto his chest, while he’s at it)…but he doesn’t. Just surreptitiously peeks down, lazily notes just how oddly comfortable his bed is, how good it feels to be there.

“So…any more? A drum and a hot chick, and…?”

He thinks it’s too late, that Haru’s out cold, but then he hears the littlest, low chuckle tickling his neck. Goosebumps shoot up and gently fade away. “Definitely. But _you_ should make one up. Author and all that.” He can tell it’s working; Haru’s almost gone.

“Well, alright,” he says gamely, smiling up. He thinks for a few moments, hardly noticing that his hand between them is stealing down, down to discover where Haru’s is resting on his abdomen, under the blanket, and coming to rest there. “Okay, so a lot of these stories are, like, _old._ Hardly relevant for us today.” He scoffs; Haru just breathes deeply, Sousuke’s hand rising and falling atop his on his stomach in soft swells. “My story is about a guy who was very dissatisfied with his, uh, _size._ So he sends away for a fabled Swedish penis enlarger.” He interrupts his own lame story with a snicker. “When he gets the package from UPS, he can’t be more excited and tears it open – but he’s crushed, _crushed_ to see the thing’s completely busted. Not only busted, he tries putting a dick in there it may get cut off.” He (unnecessarily) points up at the alarming hourglass-shape of his “penis-enlarger” above. “He’s so angry, positively livid, he winds up and chucks the thing as hard as he can – and presto, the lovely constellation we see above us. Ta-da.”

Haru’s gently snoring.

Sousuke smiles, a smile he can feel in his whole body, and carefully wraps his arm around Haru’s side. He closes his eyes.

***

…Now THIS time I didn’t mean to get on the “let’s victimize Haru” bandwagon, either. The nasty encounter with the icky Western guy (actually modelled on the Aussie National Team guy in S2E12; sorry, guy!) came out of nowhere and was intended to show a few things – a little ironic turnabout from S2E2 with the classic “Sou-gets-Haru-against-a-vertical-surface” scenario – only whoops, this time Sou is _horrified_ to find Haru in that situation. Even better, I wanted to point out that yes, Haru is catnip (duh), but this “cat” is perfectly capable of self-defense.

Not that he isn’t affected by the experience :///

So the overall point of this odd little chap was that Sou realizes he’s wanting to simply _know_ more – to genuinely take Haru where he would usually go, to provide real comfort to him WITHOUT ANY SEXUAL ADVANCES, to finally (accidentally! I didn’t intend this O.o) progress to first-names. To be with each other as _people,_ not antagonists or saviors or dates. It was surprisingly fun to write <3

TO FOLKS PATIENTLY waiting for the stakeout, o dears I feel you and your waiting is almost at an end ;D

Haru’s totally kickass punk-pop heroines [Shonen Knife](http://www.shonenknife.net/profile.html) (will never forget seeing them live :D)

Amazing [Japanese legends about Orion](http://www2.gol.com/users/stever/orion.htm), minus Sou’s contribution of course.


	16. The Italian Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ho ho ho Merrrrrry Christmas (Hanukkah Kwanzaa etc)! My gift to you fine, fine people (heh) is The Great RinMako Stakeout. 'Twill be up to you to determine its success ;D
> 
> You really are all the best - this thing would sorta be pointless w/o you <3

Rin.

Is.

LOST.

He made it home from his sister’s Saturday night only slightly slower than the land-speed record he set getting there, clutching the manila folder like it was the goddamn answer to life, the universe, and everything (which being a pop-culture devotee he KNOWS is in fact “42,” but anyway). In one big long chain of moves he went from door to sink to stove to cupboard to bedroom (with mega-travel-mug of chamomile tea) to closet (shedding tight trim hoodie, stylishly-slouchy jeans; slipping on loose tank and sweats with the comfort of a hug) to bed. He had a twin bed, and he liked it that way; with the room (and the rest of his flat) in blackness and the only light the little reader-lamp clipped to his headboard, it was like his bed was a cradle, or a canoe softly floating him away in a black sea…

And he wasn’t even high.

Not that he did that kind of thing.

He snuggled himself in and couldn’t help first rereading what he’d covered so far, savoring the language, feeling the disorienting familiarity of the picture-perfect descriptions of Mako (ha… “Tanglewood”), of himself. Re-experiencing the embarrassing but undeniable pulse of _that scene –_ Makoto (…Tanglewood!) lashed down, fucking _naked,_ just ready to get both pounded and auto-erotic-asphyxiated. Or, to be fair, in this case just-plain asphyxiated, with the “erotic” element enjoyed solely by the other party. Rin swallowed thickly. But he skimmed past, moving quickly too through their first awkward-yet-sweet meeting at the fireplace ( _hot chocolate!!_ How could anything be more Makoto than that?) including their uncomfortable – yet also painfully hot – first fumblings.

God. He had the strangest, most-painful wish that he could reach through the pages to their 18th-century not-selves, grab them by their damn … jerkins (guess in “Michael’s” case he’d just be grabbing a shoulder), shake them silly and yell “LUBE, you guys!! Cooking grease, candlewax, whale-blubber, SOMETHING! And stretching!! Oh my GOD stretching! Just…just, foreplay in general! The dick’s your friend, get to know it. And please, please just decide on who’s topping _first_ then second, kinda like a dance, it’ll all go fine. Ya don’t have to go rushing in together like you’re both trying to get in a door at the same time…”

Actually, as cringe-worthy as the whole scenario was, it made him smirk.

Then – the good stuff – he arrived at the *NEW CHAPTER*. The dear-God-what-the-hell-happens-after-he-got-sorta-lanced-by-Mako (TANGLEWOOD…) stuff. Not to mention what the hell this guy and his damn SISTER are gonna think of this giant … giant … _doofus_ lying all over him and, like, _attacking_ him. “What in the holy name of GOD are you doing to my friend, you _bastard,_ ” is RIGHT, _Stephen_! (He could’ve bro-fisted him. If he were real.)

So he settled in.

And read.

And re-read. And re-read again.

And thank GOD he doesn’t have to work on Sunday. Because he’s such a space-cadet, such a total fucking slave to the whims of Yamazaki Fucking Sousuke and Nanase Fucking Haruka he’d probably turn in the middle of a position-change and bash his head into a light-pole. Knock himself unconscious. On the other hand, the _subject matter_ in question suggests something else. He … thinks it might put him into a … state. A sorta fluffy, content, all-is-good all-is-fine cotton-candy cloud, which if the shoot was one of those “soft” jobs may have actually gotten him some extra positive attention from whoever was behind (and, hell) in front of the camera. One of those meet-cute at the holiday resort, bump-into-each-other-again at the hot-tub, wild and/or heartfelt first-time (hah) blowjobs poolside (which, Rin knows, is just nasty given how unsafely warm they keep those … talk about a breeding ground for STIs!). Graduating to a this-is-the-ONE soft-focus multi-position on a gauzy tulle-draped four-poster bed.

He’s pretty sure that, in This State, he could actually convincingly fall for the guy. Even if he’d just done a violent gang-rape number with him the previous day.

It’s the TONE the chapter leaves him with, he thinks, as he decides fuck it – he is utterly completely useless today. His body is a shell housing a drooling, starry-eyed, romantic mess, and as such is good for just one thing.

The pool.

He stretches, lightly, on the pool deck at his local club. It’s nothing fancy, nothing special, certainly not “Olympic-size” (the very phrase giving Rin a tiny stab somewhere deep inside) but it’s clean and safe and affordable, and it’s open 24/7, whenever the need to hit a pool might strike him. The greatest priority in his very modest list of necessary priorities.

It even has starting blocks – he thinks a local league, association, team, something uses it for meets – and as he silently steps up on the block he remembers again how much he loves this position. How much it’s “him,” who he really is – gazing down to the end like it’s a shooting gallery, a bowling lane where he _knows_ he’s about to roll a strike, and another, and another. A 300, perfect game. Just keep reaching his arms ahead and powering his legs behind, his own boat and his own motor, and best of all –

Totally, utterly mindless, meditative, pure relaxation. No one directing him. A chance to turn his mind to things he wants to.

And today he’s gripped by the spell of this story. This world. The almost indescribable _feeling_ that still possesses him, that it’s _him,_ it’s he and Makoto and his sis. And this mystery-guy, “Stephen.” So in a flurry of terribly-embarrassing misunderstand-y activity, Chapter 4 starts when Stephen and his sis, “Kate,” bust in after being on a sneaky patrol around the perimeter of their land, being sure no Huron parties followed them after the rescue. Of-fucking-course they yank the gloriously-nude Michael (he can’t call him “Mike”… he just can’t) off / out of him in his gloriously-nude glory, after-which Stephen gets him in a totally bad-ass headlock, bless him. He just HAS to meet who this guy _really_ is, given that apparently these hacky authors are incapable of actually, you know, “creating” characters and have to go around doing “take-offs” on everyone…even if they don’t actually KNOW them…

SO. Makoto’s in a headlock, stammering and apologizing at the height of his Mako-crossed-with-Hugh-Grant way, and Kate’s got her hand on a flintlock at her side (his sister’s apparently a total badass in this; well-matched). And he’s just lying back in the blankets, totally embarrassed to the point of being tongue-tied, madly trying to cover himself. And he finally saves the day by ‘fessing-up to the, uh, consensual nature of the encounter.

 _Total_ change of tone. Like, ridiculous. From “string ‘im up” to “when’s the date?” Stephen leaps up to root out some loaner clothes as the two dudes are about the same size, but – good on ya, Sousuke and Haruka – they make Michael be just _mortified_ to impose, insisting he stay nude (well … swaddled in a light wool blanket). So they pull chairs around the hearth, Kate shoves him away to resurrect the abused hot chocolate and Stephen gets some hard cheese and bread out of a larder dug behind the stone cabin, and they proceed to get wonderfully chummy. Just … trading stories, starting at the surface (Michael fondly describing his country home back in England; the three of them laughing about their challenges getting along together).

…quickly getting deep, as Michael shares that he was forced to become the lord of his humble estate at an early age when he and his young twin siblings witnessed his parents murdered by highwaymen, leaving him their guardian. As he and Kate quietly talk about the murder of _their_ parents by a French-Huron war-party when _they_ were young, too young to survive on their own. The party had torched their humble family cabin, leaving it a smoldering ruin, leaving their parents’ corpses mutilated and burned, and in a final inhumane (or maybe just logical) act, left the two kids, in shock – it being way too much trouble to bring and feed two small children.

They’d been found – and saved, in every way – by a truly kind and stoic man who was the dead-last of a dying local tribe, the Mohicans. This noble man had already adopted another, older, orphaned pioneer boy (who turned out to be Stephen) and adopted him and Kate, too. He … he became their dad. Taught them how to live off of just what the forest could give them, to work a gun, to generally be tough. But not cruel. And to laugh – they laughed a lot. Kate and Stephen grew close but to everyone’s surprise they just stayed fond of each other as a bro and sis; it seemed Kate’s interests lay elsewhere. And Rob, Rob was always driven to be their protector.

Particularly after their Indian father was killed. Murdered trying to protect their humble home from intrusion.

So. The fire dies, things are heavy between them all, Stephen and Kate give each other “A LOOK” – and then the two of them are being bundled up the ladder into the sleeping loft. Michael doing his Makoto-cum-Hugh-Grant-Englishguy protest again. But they just insist, Stephen saying something about “comfort for the guest,” Kate whispering “more privacy” and winking. Like the trouble she was.

Rin coasts into the wall, panting, head pillowed on his forearms. Lets the rest of his body just hang limply in the cool water, as he envisions what those two guys painted…

…the warmth of that loft, the darkness, the coziness…

…the humble perfection of that featherbed again, that Stephen manhandled up the ladder (and Kate piled with those blankets)…

…the smile, the _smile_ on Michael’s face, god they know Makoto’s SMILE, the one when he’s so shy, and a little uncertain about what to do next – something Rin doesn’t see toooften in this industry they’re in, this cynical, seen-it-all fake-factory, and he really, really misses it…

…the way he reverently lowers Michael’s naked perfection into their temporary sanctuary, in some sort of almost do-over for before…

…mouths his way down _that chest…_

 _…_ oh, so slowly takes _that cock_ oh, so carefully into his mouth, kisses it and sucks it and licks it and strokes it like it’s the goddamn Holy Grail.

The way Michael – _Makoto –_ comes into his mouth like a freight-train, gasping around his forearm so he won’t disturb the rest of the house.

The way he just GRABS Rin – _Rob –_ and twirls him around, basically ruins his mouth with his tongue while the redhead writhes under him and his giant hand returns the favor.

Rin moves awkwardly and verrry slowly as he heaves himself out of the pool.

*

Rin has a group-shoot with Mako late Monday morning … and he is positively THRUMMING inside with anticipation for his plan this evening. He’s already warned all players (those who will be allowed to KNOW about it, that is, including Makoto and Emiko and Miri, his – thank God – absolute favorite hair and makeup ladies respectively who just happen to be on today’s shoot). All will be staying after they finish for the day for a little “extra-special” after-hours work. Then, as he put it to Mako in yesterday’s text, _dinner. Monday night. OMG AUTHOR STAKEOUT YOU. WILL. BE. THERE. or I will kill you. maybe screw you to death. Got it?_

In PRIME Makoto Tachibana-fashion he didn’t raise a bare-syllable to bitch about the fatigue they would surely have to combat after a hard (pffft) day at work. Nope, his reply just read _oh Rin, wouldn’t miss it – we’re gonna see them! We’re gonna know!! O_O :DDD <333_

Then followed that – quickly – with _you can still screw me btw. Just leave me a liiiiiiittle bit of life essence at the end so I can pursue some kind of sad existence. Ha! Ha!_

Mako had an existential / weirdo streak about eight-miles wide. But he was gorgeous. And could screw like a jackhammer AND a feather-duster, switching on a dime. And made him homemade chicken-soup when he got sick (or … tried to). And just basically was the best human being ever in Japan. Or the Eastern Hemisphere. Or the planet, essentially. And, yet again, Rin didn’t deserve him. At all.

So. The shoot. Your standard “two-on-two b-ball game; hey, you’re hot; hey so are you; let’s screw” scenario. Ridiculous. Especially since Rin’s CRAP at basketball but whatever, people aren’t gonna watch this for realism. They’re gonna watch it for the way he eyes Mako on the court as the big pain-in-the-ass keeps blocking him (doesn’t he know this is a _mock-_ game??), how he snarls and bares his teeth like a fucking wild animal, how he _goddamn stalks him like the prey he is._

The other two guys? Yeah … uh, Rin guesses there’re maybe a couple of other guys here too.

Funniest part is, Mako _definitely_ knows something is up. Script actually allows for a fair amount of, say, “leeway,” to let things look sorta spontaneous in terms of who was just happening to decide they’d like to fuck who (…whom? Rin never knows for sure). So, theoretically, four guys, shoulda been a full-on daisy-chain mixer.

Nope.

Rin’s ON Mako like the other two guys might as well be two extra sound guys. Just tearing at him, like something from _Wild Kingdom,_ poor guy can hardly catch a breath or keep a stitch on. When that leaves Rin open to the so-called “advances” of either/both of the other guys, he can’t care less. At one point he thinks he’s being fucked from behind by one guy – way too hard for his tastes, he thinks the guy’s pissed at being ignored in the game scene – while the fourth guy energetically sucks him off as he crouches under Rin.

He thinks.

Because he’s lost, just, fucking, _lost_ in the act of giving Mako a blowjob as the big guy sprawls on a bench in the “locker room,” and the sights and sounds and sensations in front of him keep folding together with what he just read probably five times the past 24 hours. And relived mentally X-times after that.

The bigger of the two guys – a real bruiser, covered in tats in a way Rin finds so _obnoxiously_ porn cliché even though he’s a fan of tattoos in general – makes a move on Mako when he’s done behind Rin. Goes to shove Rin out of the way, actually, so he can take over for him, presumably.

Rin goes postal.

He keeps to the script, such as it is – barely – in that no fists fly. But he ends up doing this weird and awkward match-make-y move, where he dances Big Tat-Guy around and offers the smaller guy to him where he’d just been (rather kindly) working on Rin. Big Tat-Guy looks genuinely pissed for a flash, then it passes (they are pros, after all) as he gets into it with Smaller Guy.

Leaving Rin free to – again – tackle poor clueless Makoto, throwing himself into his lap like he’s doing the goddamn pole-vault.

Makoto gets over it pretty quick.

*

The “stakeout restaurant” – or so Rin keeps calling it on the car-ride over, making little _Mission: Impossible_ theme noises until Mako finally can’t take it from the tension and tells him to shut up – is really nice. Mako can tell even by the front – nothing flashy, not at all. It actually sort of looks like a nice, quiet apartment building and he’s worried, thinking he’s totally blown the directions and driven them to a, well, apartment. Rin just grins at him, big.

“That’s ‘cause it IS in the apartment building. In the basement. Romantic, huh?”

Makoto thinks he’d better keep that grin safely hidden away or there is NO way they’re going to get away with this. Emiko and Miri did a completely-astonishing job on them, it’s true. But – and it’s a BIG but – there really was no hiding that crazy shark-grin of Rin’s. Amazingly (or maybe just creepily) the ladies did have a set of fake teeth he could’ve worn (something Mako just didn’t want to think about; he knew porn didn’t offer a dental plan, but this was ridiculous). But Rin did his pissy-stubborn thing and refused. Mako thinks it was vanity. He also thinks it was really fucking cute. As long as he doesn’t screw it up and keeps that mouth under wraps; he’s almost positive _that mouth_ is a major memory-cue for at least one of their mystery targets…

However, in every other way, the “Rin and Makoto” anyone knows are gone. The women went subtle instead of costume-y, a wise move, and ruled-out hair-dye (Miri fingered his brown-sugar, Rin’s red-licorice possessively and said she’d just as soon throw paint on the Mona Lisa). She used a couple of black wigs instead, Rin’s sorta edgy and “arty,” longish though not as long as his own hair, a long bang. Makoto got a much more conservative black model, shorter than his own hair, spikier. Emiko surprised them by smirking and producing costume-contacts for them too – lovely deep blue for Rin, an unusual teal for him.

Their kind and talented coworkers finished their magic and they quickly slid into their dinner-dress clothes (suits, no ties; Rin compelled to pair his trim suit coat with a tight black tee printed with an extinguished candle wafting ghostly gray smoke). Then they have to just stop and stare at each other.

They have to. They can’t speak for moments that stretch into minutes.

“Um,” Rin says, just flat-out GAWKING at him. “Um,” he tries again.

Mako’s worse. He … he can’t even say that much. Rin’s just … he just looks _so much_ like something, someone Makoto thinks he knows. Someone he’s seen before, maybe in a movie…? (…in a dream…?)

The urge to skip this whole stupid dinner-undercover-super-secret-spy thing and just fuck – _no,_ make love, right here, in this fucking stupid soulless porn set where they’d spent the whole morning and afternoon doing just that – is suddenly almost overwhelming. He can tell Rin feels exactly the same.

But they have a job, a mission, and actually, Mako’s growling stomach sort of decides things as much as anything, which Rin bursts into raucous laughter over. And Mako almost attacks him. But can’t (disguise, disguise), _dammit._

So Mako drives his trusty Honda over, and Rin drives him batshit the whole way, and the valet whisks his car away and they troop down into the basement. He keeps his hand at Rin’s back without even thinking of it. Rin whispers back as they descend – “Here’s the tricky part. I asked to get seated near the Matsuoka party, knowing my sis must’ve made the res – it SCREAMS Gou – but dear GOD I hope they don’t interpret that as ‘seat these fine fellows with that esteemed party, post-haste!’” Makoto knows just how keyed-up he is just by his general kookiness level, and squeezes the hand at his waist. Rin smiles back gratefully.

“Everything’s gonna be OK. Better yet, we’re gonna have a great time,” he whispers in Rin’s ear.

And sure enough, the smiling host smoothly brings the “Tachibana party” to their cute little table, tucked _perfectly_ in a sort of corner, where both of them will be ideally situated to eyeball the table for six that can only belong to their quarry.

…oh GOD. He’s starting to think like Rin now. The thought is vaguely alarming.

They’re hardly settled and Rin hasn’t even had time to make a single snarky comment when a waiter’s already smiling in front of them, making recommendations. He’s so, so tempted to get a bottle of red and just keep them coming to keep him from doing anything stupid, but also knows that’s a … well, an oxymoron, or something. And Rin’s a pretty committed non-drinker when left to his devices, making it that much more important they keep it together and stick to water.

…until the guy’s saying something about a really, _really_ good Bordeaux. And fuck it all, Makoto’s ordering a bottle – because what harm can _one_ bottle do? Rin’s eyes – disorientingly-blue – sorta pop.

The guy bustles away and Rin’s smirking at him. “Hmm. So, tell me, Mako – is this the moment our great undercover adventure all goes to hell?” Almost laughing.

Makoto wants to do so many things but takes the high road. Public place. “Ah, _dear,_ but you’ll understand why when you try it. The layers; the floral notes; the complexity…” He officially runs out of wine b.s. and sighs. “It’s just really, really great. I think you’ll really like it.”

“Good enough for me,” Rin smiles around his water glass.

*

They’re buzzed – Mako a little, Rin a lot more than a little and trying very hard to keep it together – when a _very particular-looking_ party-of-six clusters at the host stand. Mako almost panics and turns to the wall like an utter noob before he remembers he isn’t himself. Not really.

Rin’s reaction is about 75 times more catastrophic – Makoto watches in slo-mo horror as Rin keys off of him, turns to the door, brightens like it’s Santa with presents for everyone in the room, and _points directly to them._ Loudly and delightedly exclaims “Omigod – they’re here!”

He fumbles Rin’s insanely-pointing hand to the tabletop, thinks as furiously as his brain can manage as six faces look curiously over. Settles for the oldest, lamest, rom-com cliché in the book and shields their faces with his other hand, gets Rin in a long, hopefully-not-enough-to-get-them-bounced kiss. It’s _definitely_ distraction enough for Rin, who’s in total buzzed undercover dinner-out heaven (Mako starts thinking he’d better make a “distraction-from-bathroom-sex” plan, fast). He creeps his shielding hand down and almost dies from the relief to see their group is now seated and getting comfy and doesn’t seem to be alarmed by them.

Looks like they’re safe to (DISCREETLY) gawk to their hearts’ content. He leans to his altered partner and whispers, “Coast is clear; we can check them out but we gotta watch it! Okay?”

“Aye-aye, Captain Kirk,” he giggles back, but at least it’s quiet, he can tell Rin’s trying ( _hard_ ), and Mako’s satisfied.

“And! For the love of God, please, eat some bread?” he pleads, but Rin’s onto him and just narrows those unsettling eyes under that new sweep of black, black hair, and Makoto gets sudden shivers. He heaves a sigh, sits forward and grabs Rin’s hand, leans in so they can gossip discreetly while simply looking like they’re an obnoxiously love-struck couple. “Okay. So let’s start scoping them out. Obviously the redhead is your sister…?”

They turn ever-so-subtly (well … Makoto does; Rin’s sorta playing “subtle” like a terrible dinner-theater actor and it’s so quietly hysterical, Mako wishes the circumstances were relaxed so he could laugh at him properly). Pick-off the obvious – yep, there’s a lovely petite redheaded woman on the far side of the round table, in something tailored and black that makes her hair glow (like Rin, on any other day). Actually, the resemblance is almost a little spooky – other than the size and hairstyle difference, she’s basically a female Rin, same hypnotic, unusual attractiveness, vivaciousness, a just-plain _presence_ he can practically feel _pushing_ across the room to them as she beams and laughs and leans deeply in to say something in the ear of the woman next to her.

“Pfffft. What was your first clue, Sherlock?” Rin’s snarking, holding his wineglass in this sorta-blasé definitely-provocative way. “Weird how much we look alike, right?”

“She’s just lovely!” Mako’s saying before realizing he either sounds like a creep or a total five-year-old seeing the Disney princesses at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

“Thanks. Our mom and dad made us themselves,” Rin snorts, tipping the glass back. Mako thoughtlessly – gently – pulls it from him as soon as it’s down and pushes the breadbasket at him. No more Mr. Nice Makoto.

“Okay. Now, who’s the woman she’s with?”

Rin grabs his hand excitedly, mouth full of bread. “Omigod. So my sis is dating this TOTAL new ‘mystery woman,’ right?? Refuses to say what she does. All’s I know is her name’s Miho –” They peer assessingly at the quietly-attractive middle-aged brunette, Mako politely, Rin with an avidness that’s almost obscene. Short, nicely-styled hair; pretty white top; a sweet face that’s reminding Mako strongly of his mom, for some reason. Rin leans closer, narrows his eyes. Takes another vicious bite of bread. “Hey, I’m all over my sis getting some – look at us, right? But I’m just getting a STRONG, uh, back-of-the-magazine feel to this woman, knowwhatimean. Am feelin’ ‘hooker.’”

Makoto tuts, frowning, starting to worry if they don’t get salads or something soon Rin could become a wild card and this thing really could go tits-up. “Rin. Come on. I’M a porn-actor that you’re dating! Why does your sister have to have some, uh, unseemly date too?”

“Oh, you’re unseemly, alright,” Rin volleys back as he leans in until there’s maaaybe an inch between their faces. “You sure were ‘unseemly’ earlier today when I did that last … long … suck … up –”

“RIN!” Mako forgets everything for a second and his hiss is perfect. The exact-right tone, timbre, everything to float across and as he looks up, horror-stricken, he meets-eyes with Rin’s beautiful sister – who has a look on her face of complete, utter stupidity. Total astonishment. It’d be hilarious if Makoto didn’t want to find a window and jump out. Which, of course is impossible, as they’re in _the fucking basement._

Feeling like an extra on _The Walking Dead_ (one of the dead ones), he grabs Rin’s face again and leans into his ear. “Bathroom. Now. I am totally fucking this up and we have GOT to regroup, oh God Rin I just totally ruined everything –”

Rin, bless him to heaven with all the angels, saints, etc., totally pulls through. Just makes calming eye-contact, nods casually, stands (steadily … more or less). Mako hardly can believe what he’s seeing but pops up after him, follows as he does his hysterical terrible-dinner-theater “casual-walk” in some general direction of a bathroom.

Which, naturally, is the absolute-wrong direction. Past the round table, deeper into the dining room, further and further and finally they get to the rear of the restaurant and he catches up, snags Rin’s sleeve. “We went the wrong way,” he hisses, half-freefall-panic, half-weird-calm, riding in that house from _Up_ as Rin and he and the restaurant and the world float peacefully away.

“DUH, genius,” Rin hisses back, eyes MURDER. “I’m regrouping here. YOU lead, dammit…!”

So that’s how Mako takes charge of their sad parade of two, sadly slinking back through the nicely-dim restaurant in the direction of the host-station like a shamed-dog, Rin behind him by the quiet sounds of shuffling and under-breath profanity.

And that’s how he’s in front when they get back into their room …

…lay eyes on the round table…

…on the two black-haired men who’d had their backs to them this whole time.

Both glancing up to see who was entering the room –

–one large, almost intimidatingly-handsome and looking so much like Mako in his “disguise,” he almost collapses in exhausted giggles, the man’s lovely teal eyes going huge and dumb with surprise –

–one small, smaller than Rin, looking _so much like_ Rin in HIS disguise –

–longish blue-black hair, attractively mussed, like someone has just awakened him from a pleasant dream; small, delicate face peering up at Makoto with a look of complete blankness, total deadpan, blue _blue_ _BLUE_ almond eyes the size of tennis balls finding his like magnets; tiny pink mouth, the slightest-bit ajar; in a classic white tuxedo jacket and one of those old-school ‘70s “tuxedo” T-shirts you see on mimes –

–the details thundering into Makoto’s eyes and then his brain in such rapid-fire clarity and perfection, he doesn’t feel drunk anymore, he feels _high,_ higher than a fucking KITE, leaping off the roof of the Up house and soaring away into the blackness of space…

…and tingling. Everywhere.

Until Rin flat-out shoves him from the side, practically sending him into the backs of the last two men at the table like an obnoxious drunk party-animal (“hey-hey-hey, we havin’ fun ‘er WHAT?”). Which of course he sort of is. Minus the party-animal part (and the drunk part, really). “GO!” Rin’s whispering, and they’re going, and they’re out of the restaurant, and collecting the car (Mako sure he’s OK to drive and so ready to just GO).

*

The group sits silently at the table for a long few minutes, Sou-chan and Haru in total seen-a-mirror/ghost stupefaction, Gou maintaining an Oscar-worthy poker-face while she feels Miho delighted beside her. Poor Nagisa and Rei are the only ones completely out of the loop, having had their backs to all the action the entire time. Poor, poor Nagi, who fucking LIVES for action.

“….So! Who _were_ those attractive gentlemen? Friends of yours?” Miho asks Haru and Sou, absolutely pleasantly and genuinely, leaning on her elbows and picking her highball glass up. “The resemblance is bizarre. Family?? I gotta know.”

Gou suddenly, certainly, knows this is _HER MOMENT._ Her chance to seize this completely fucking ridiculous cock-up by her completely fucking ridiculous brother and his totally huge and ridiculous (and hot) boy-toy … that she can’t help but admire, in some deepest part of her emotional, drama-loving heart. That she’s sure she shares with him.

“Well! You guys ever hear the theory that everybody has a doppelgänger out there…?” she begins.

***

Ahahahaha YEEEEEAH!!! :DDD

Well, that was really really fun. God only knows where they’re gonna all take this new shit that’s come to light (to again reference _[The Big Lebowski](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0118715/)_ ), but hey, at least it’s out there. Sorta.

I just died laughing playing off of the fact with their “disguises” that _Mako is basically Sou and Rin is basically Haru._ Sheesh, KyoAni, I know you have a lot of characters to cover, but that’s some corner-cutting, man. (Unless there really is some deeeeep Shinto-y doppelgänger-y thing intended ;))

Please keep the FAB thoughts / ideas coming if they come to you! <3

(Also – here’s [the place I modeled the stakeout after](http://the128cafe.com/images/), if ya like :))


	17. The dust settles, pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing just gets sillier and sillier, but it sounds like y'all are OK with that, so that's good ;D. THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR UTTER FABULOUSNESS <3

Gou’s text is absolutely _terrifying._

It isn’t her fault, really; Rin can tell she’s trying her total, complete, stretch-herself-to-the-edges-of-her-personality utmost to be as kind and accommodating – as non-threatening – as possible. That in itself is scary. And Rin knows it’s the awkward flutters of guilt he feels about Monday’s Most Excellent MisAdventure that scare him the most.

_Hiya Big Bro!! so, dinner last night huh? Yeahhh ;/ But never mind – I gotta meet this guy you were with, ok? Lunch Thursday? You guys have time for that? Or even this weekend?_

God. Just the fact that she’s texting instead of her preferred mode – calling – is highly suspect. So either she’s wanting to give him some space to reply, or she wants to kill and eat him so much she can’t trust herself with live communication.

Rin smacks his phone on his forehead, _willing_ a strategy in there, and hits on his Old Faithful: the offensive.

_Well why aren’t you bringing “MIHO” if I have to take Mako? (btw – Miho – Mako – let’s call the whole thing off hehehehehe)_

She’s back to him in a flash. She always was an awesome texter. Way better than him.

_Nice try dude. Ya think I’m letting you animals at my delicate flower?_

Damn. His curiosity rachets up another notch. What the FUCK can this woman possibly do that his sister, who really is no prude and has some _winners_ in her back-archive, need to hide her from her beloved bro? Who may as well be her twin, they’re so damn close? Who does pornos, for God’s sake?

 _FINE. Just think it’s sad we should have to hide on this. If ya love her, there’s nothing to be ashamed of! YOU know me!! Do you think I of all people would judge?? Makes me sad :”(_ Take that. Crying Rin – if the offensive was a bust maybe his tears would melt her ice-heart, or something.

Nope. _It’s totally healthy for family to have secrets from each other._ Dammit.

Scowling, he stabs his phone. _I’ll check with Mako and see. Jerk._

_*_

His first surprise is that they beat Gou – Madame Punctualle – to the restaurant.

It’s a cute place, adorable really, a hipster-heaven with sparkly diner booths that have sketchpads at them so people can doodle as they wait for their order (or make dirty comments, more-likely). Servers in full tatted-up/pierced ‘50s rockabilly glory, all hot, female AND male, and as they settle into one side of a cushy booth Rin and Mako sit for a few minutes, just enjoying the view.

“Oh my God Rin, look at _that_ guy,” _his_ guy breathes in his ear, meaningfully but subtly nodding to a tall, skinny bleach-blond with two full sleeves of samurai motifs done in vibrant colors, hair buzzed close on both sides and done-up in the coolest mock-pompadour up top, total-perfect Elvis face with smoldering black eyes and lush lips. Just the hint of a sneer – very nice touch – as he breezes by with a full tray. Rin (unlike Mako) cranes all the way out of the booth to watch his back view, nods with finality.

“Yup. Good eye, my man,” he confirms, tipping back up into the booth. Makoto was great at spotting hotties. (He found Rin, didn’t he? Heh.) But Rin’s still sure no one in the room compares to the giant brunette tucked safely between the wall and him.

“Right?? Or _wow, that_ guy!” he enthuses in the direction of a little black-haired dude who’s hurrying out of the kitchen and pauses to help the next booth, giving them the chance to eyeball his punky faux-hawk and sorta feline prettiness, grace. Rin can just SMELL the diva on him from here. He scoffs.

“Hmmm, you’re making me think I need a trip to the salon for a new shorter cut and maybe a dye job. In, uh, _black?_ ” Rin reaches down, squeezes a big knee. He’s totally kidding (in great spirits actually, despite the possible “last meal” he’s at) but is surprised to see Makoto blush like a kid whose mom just caught him with a nudie magazine.

“Um. That. Um, right.”

Rin blinks at him. Comprehension slowly dawns. “…YOU have a kink for little black-haired guys! Is this a new thing brought on by the total brain-fry of seeing me on Monday, or have you always been a big perv for that?”

“Please don’t be mad, Rin!” Mako’s saying quickly, practically interrupting him, like he’s been doing some _serious thinking_ on the topic that requires shame (which for Mako, granted, is a pretty low bar). Rin stares, mouth ajar; his guy hurries on. “I have never had a ‘type’ in my life. I swear. I think it’s actually helped me get through the whole porn thing.” Rin’s scoffing again – consummate professional he is, Mako still WOULD need to be feeling _something_ with the total luck-of-the-draw of the “costars” they get paired with. Big romantic.

He would know.

“…until last night,” he’s saying, with a look of such confusion and near-sadness Rin darts forward and gives him a lusty kiss to get it off his face, with partial success.

“What’s the look for?” Rin demands softly. “What’s this sadness?”

“It was those disguises,” he sorta moans, tormented, sliding his face into his hands like he can’t stand to show it in public anymore. Rin marvels at his glowing ears. _Ears,_ fergodssake. “So the ladies work on you and then you get your nice dinner clothes on and then I see you like that, and…” He swallows. “ _God._ Then we have our Fateful Encounter –” Rin can hear the capitals in his voice and almost dies from the adorableness. “–and _bam_.”

Rin waits patiently but it appears that’s it. Makoto’s still keeping his face covered too. Eventually and characteristically he gets tired of waiting. “’ _Bam_ ’?”

From behind his hands, Mako’s voice sounds thick, and _angry,_ and at who or what Rin is baffled. “I found my type.” And Rin finally, _finally_ gets it. JESUS he’s dense sometimes when something is right in front of him - !

He reaches up, gently but insistently pries Makoto’s hands down, one after the other. Blinks in surprise and sudden tenderness at the dampness in his beautiful green eyes. “Oh, Mako. You … you didn’t just find a ‘type,’ did you. You found the _one_ , didn’t you.”

Mako’s gaping back, his face the dictionary-picture of “recognition,” when his dear, dear, _moment-ruining_ sister is hurrying towards them from the door at about Mach 6. She’s profusely apologizing for their lateness –

–and that’s surprise No. 2.

Because the quietly-attractive brunette from Monday – Gou’s mystery-screw, “Miho” – is ambling after her to the booth, smiling. Smiling genuinely, one of those smiles that tells you the person actually is glad to see you.

And Rin wishes he could rediscover his need to know all about her, to get all wrapped up in the latest titillating mystery in someone _else’s_ life, because it sounds like he maybe just got one of his own dumped in his lap. One he has NO idea what to do with.

“Rin! Makoto-san!” Gou is gusting, getting to the booth and seizing Rin, basically dragging him out to hug her. He capitulates, watching the unmistakeable _shift_ in her expression with great amusement and a weird sort of pride when she releases him and turns her eyes to Mako, who’s popped out of the booth behind him.

“Oh, Makoto, please, Gou!” Mako insists, smiling his most-winning smile, the tears and flush (somehow) safely put away. He’s putting a hand out to her for a friendly and totally appropriate handshake, but Rin sees her eyes, the flat sheen she gets when she targets something she really _really_ wants, and she’s smiling _her_ most-winning smile up at him.

“Makoto, then,” she says, ignoring his hand and reaching her arms around his back for a hug, head tucked to his chest. Rin gets it. Total gentleman, he gently encircles her and gives her back a squeeze. She’s the flushed one when they split and she turns to the woman at her side, almost shyly. “Rin, Makoto, this is my friend Miho.”

“I invited myself,” Miho says conspiratorially, sliding an arm casually around Gou’s slim waist. “That’s why we’re so goddamn late, actually. Totally my fault. I got a hold of her planner somehow and happened to see this down for today and basically threw a fit. Insisted on coming until she let me.” She winks at Rin, smiles that kind smile up at Mako. “Real good trusting foundation for our relationship, right? How long do you give us? You guys have been together, what, how long?”

Gou’s turning to him just as expectantly, apparently weathering her girlfriend’s loose-lips okay, which intrigues Rin given her prior almost pathological need to keep her under-wraps. Mako’s quietly gesturing to them to sit on their side – maybe as a distraction tactic – but he just sighs and shoves Mako in, climbs in after. He can’t escape Gou (and Miho, apparently) that easily.

“That’s … sorta complicated. We were friends since high-school, on the same swim-team. Good friends after that. Then, uh … we both were struggling for a long time, having no luck figuring out what we should do next. We were sorta drowning our sorrows one night about a year and a half ago. I’m … not a big drinker,” he adds quietly, suddenly realizing he probably started to get “too personal” in response to Miho’s simple question about four sentences ago. Realizes he’s gone too far, somehow, and has to just finish the damn thing, stupid and embarrassing as it is. He’s sure Gou’s spilled the key factoid about him, them to Miho already, anyway. He hopes Mako won’t want to kill him.

“We – that was the first time we were together, after knowing each other all those years.” Miho’s leaning on her elbows, smiling softly, strange depths of understanding in her chocolate-colored eyes. Gou’s the opposite – way back against the booth bench, fingers against her lips, her eyes ( _their_ eyes) so big and suspiciously shimmering. He swallows. “It sorta started as a joke between us, like, ‘hey, we’re alright at this – you think anyone would pay to watch us? Ha, ha.’”

Now Mako’s got the slightest sheen to his eyes, slips an arm behind him, leaves his hand there all warm and real on his far side.

“Not very funny as it turns out. Not that it wasn’t true – we both broke into doing videos really, really quick. Like, people sorta have been falling over themselves to get either one of us in front of a camera. Or both of us together; that’s apparently the biggest draw, according to hits or whatever.”

Mako’s softly interrupting him and he looks over, surprised. “But Rin’s right, it’s like this joke we had that didn’t turn out so funny. We … we of course can’t tell people what we do. My family thinks I’m a grade-school teacher.” A bitter look crosses his face. “Your mom doesn’t know, does she, Rin?”

Rin swallows hard, blinks rapidly, _wills._ Waits until he can answer without his voice breaking. “No. Thinks I’m a swim coach.” The words almost don’t make it out of his throat.

Mako’s taking over again – bless him. Like he needs to say this as much as Rin apparently did. “We have to worry about health stuff all the time, no matter how safe we are, how careful. And, for me, don’t know about you …” He pauses, seeming to struggle with the right words. “It’s weird seeing you with all these other guys we don’t care about, Rin. I don’t care that you’re with another guy or a thousand other guys really. Theoretically.” Stares at the table; Rin just stares at him. “Seriously. But the fact that it’s something you – and I – just finish up, tell the other guy or guys ‘good game,’ clock out almost… that is just weird. Weird. It’s way too casual. This thing we _pretend_ to do with these guys on camera –”

He shakes his head. “There’s really nothing casual about it.”

There’s a very long pause – tears now trickling freely down around Rin’s cheekbones, Miho’s eyes sorta bottomless, her hand rubbing Gou’s back softly as _she_ holds both hands to her mouth. Mako just looking at him, his eyes sad, big hand anchoring.

“…So. Don’t mean to interrupt, folks… Can I get drinks for anyone?” Hot/diva little black-haired guy, who’s – irony of fucking ironies – their server. But his big black eyes are soft, and understanding, and he leans in like their accomplice. “We do the best ‘adult milkshakes’ I think you’ll ever have. Trust me, they’re really therapeutic when you’re having a day like I think you all may be having.”

So that’s how they end up getting a round of boozy milkshakes, chocolate and strawberry and mocha and he thinks Gou’s got passion-fruit, and they are fucking AWESOME, and that of course leads to giant baskets of onion rings and cheese curds and fried dill-pickles. Followed by giant burgers made with the cheese _inside_ so you have to bite with care or self-immolate your mouth. Basically the least-Japanese meal Rin may have ever had, and it is fucking glorious, it is fucking food- _therapy,_ and he’s thinking he’s going to be tipping Hottie Mini-Ravonette Waiter Guy verrry nicely. He’s thinking he may actually have to take Hottie Waiter Guy home with them as an extra-special present to Mako for being all supportive. And – and maybe a present to himself too. ‘Cause he’s worth it.

“Miho! You are so goddamn awesome! I’m so fucking disappointed my sister decided to keep you to herself this long!” Rin’s mouth is full of pickles but the thought is so crucial he can’t wait to swallow to get it out. Mako’s moved up to full-on arm-over-shoulder, he thinks for more structural support, which is unnecessary but really comforting. Gou’s not interested in comfort. She’s chucking cheese curds at him, actually, which you wouldn’t think would hurt.

“Oh, shut up, Rinrin.” (“ _Rinrin?”_ Mako’s saying stupidly, so Rin’s forced to chuck the curds back at his sis, like, three times as hard.) “Just ‘cause I have half a shred of self-control and don’t have to _blab_ everything all the time. You should come to me for lessons, Bro.”

“Mmm, her self-control is debatable,” Miho’s saying totally reasonably, head in her hand, scooping a massive dollop of ketchup with a French fry and chewing with relish. She looks the least altered by far even though Rin can swear they all have had the same milkshake-y goodness, and he’s starting to think she’s not someone to fuck with. “Especially when she _needs_ control, you know. So that’s why I think she hooked up with me in the first place. Because I know all the right ways to hold her down, keep her back, sort of like batten her hatches –” Amused wink. “It’s a paradox, but that’s how she can actually keep up such a totally put-together thing. By getting regularly broken by yours truly.”

Dead silence, like, crickets. Rin thinks he could make a cheese curd into his sis’ mouth, it’s hanging open so big, but he wants to tell her not to worry about it. That it’s all OK and he SO gets it.

And goddamn if “Mr. Perfect Communication Jerk” Mako beats him to it, again! “Oh! Do you do that professionally, Miho?”

“You are _so_ adorable, Sunshine,” she beams at him. “Yep, have been a mistress for almost 20 years now. Wild, huh? Say it like that, makes me sound old.” Light, sweet laugh.

“You? Never,” he coos back, and they beam at each other, and Rin hates them, and wants to tell them both to get a room. Not that that would go anywhere given that Miho likes girls and Mako (LITTLE BLACK-HAIRED) boys, but he’s thinking maybe Mako could use some of her unique, um, therapy. To loosen his shit up, or something. And Rin could watch. Just for, like, quality-control and stuff.

“Well, not to change the subject, cutie-pies, but I almost forgot about the main reason I barged-in today!” Miho sits up, excited, and Rin’s instantly afraid. “So, what in blue _hell_ was the deal with those costumes you had on Monday? Were you role-playing as Nanase and Yamazaki, or something? Oh my GOD, I must know.” Her eyes are twinkling, and Rin feels suspiciously like he might throw up. He turns his eyes as huge and sad and pitiful as he can to Mako – begging, begging him to take this one. But Mako just takes a giant bite of his burger, looks expectantly to him like he’s dying to know too.

Fucker.

Rin thinks faster and harder than he’s ever thought in his life, watching as Gou’s expression freezes somewhere between “Please don’t fuck this up” and “Fuck this up, bro, and I will _hurt you._ ”

“We….’re … really big fans … of them,” he starts slowly, looking compulsively over at Gou for confirmation. She just looks confused but seems a teeeeny bit less like she’s planning to put hurt on him, so he goes on. “We – we were there because I did what you did, stole Gou’s planner and saw it on there.”

“I have GOT to start putting my calendar in my phone,” Gou mutters, playing with an onion ring so it looks like a big grinning mouth.

“And … and I had this crazy like fanboy idea to get the hair and makeup ladies to do us, so we’d look like them. So we could like go up and be like, ‘Surprise! Biggest fans!’” Mako snorts next to him and he gets him in a shin, thinks he maybe kicked too hard and feels bad. Poor Mako. “And, well, we got some wine, and I basically, fucking, lost it. Lost my shit totally, totally lost my nerve. Demanded we get outta there before we could make a move.”

“Oh my _God,_ boys, you fanboy over a couple of authors like that? A couple of ultra-ripped porn actors? Oh, I can’t believe it.” Miho is sorta looking like she’s in seventh heaven. Rin doesn’t know if he should start panicking and making up an even STUPIDER story now.

“Oh, Miho, come on, just _look_ at the guys! Hello!” Mako’s saying in this just-between-us-girls way that Rin really, really wants to laugh his ass off at. “And oh, their writing … God, it’s like the best drug ever, the pictures they put in your mind…”

Miho has an understanding look no lesbian should wear in this situation. “Believe me, Makoto, I feel you. I sat through that dinner Monday basically gawking at them the whole time. Just on the aesthetics, mind.” Another wink. “Sort of like today, actually. And her friends Rei and Nagisa? Lord. I’m starting to think the common denominator in all this hot is my girl, here.” She turns to his sister, gets a _single fingertip_ under her chin (oh my God) and gives her this kiss … well, it is both the most wholesome and dirtiest thing Rin thinks he maybe has ever seen. And he’s seen a LOT of stuff.

They break, just gaze at each other, Gou clearly breathless though she’s trying her damnedest to hide it. Mako clears his throat thickly next to him. Then Miho turns back to them like she got distracted from the conversation by all the epic levels of HOT that suddenly came up.

“Oh! And I love getting new book recommendations, especially of the smut variety. Is there a particular title that’s your favorite?”

And Rin just stares at her like she’s his fucking nemesis.

“So sorry. That’d be like picking a favorite kid,” Mako’s saying smoothly and so honestly, now Rin’s starting to wonder if HE’S the one who shouldn’t be fucked with.

***

Heh ;)

Couldn’t resist stealing that old joke from _[Office Space](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0151804/)_ (“oh…but ALL of Michael Bolton’s songs are so good…”)

I allllmost had Rin successfully get Hottie Waiter’s number at the end there, but why screw with some casual sex with a (very nice but) poor-substitute dude? In other words, don’t spoil your dinner, boys ;P. (Especially since I CAN’T ESCAPE the image of Rin and Mako as a couple of Lost Boys who need something BIG to intervene to save them from this sad, if “sexy,” rut :/ <3)

Next time: Haru and Sou do their own post-Monday Show and Tell :)


	18. The dust settles, pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, beautiful people!! Hope you're having an excellent night/day no matter what you're doing. Thank you all again for joining me on this Mondo Bizarro Adventure and making it 100 times the story it would be if I was writing for myself :)
> 
> Also: Haru in blue harem pants for no particular reason. You're welcome.

Sousuke isn’t being himself.

Haru is comfy-ensconsed in the study working through a big development in _Brohicans_. It’s the perfect distraction, actually. He leans way, _way_ back in Sousuke’s fabulous Master of the Universe desk chair, heels pertly crossed on the edge of the desk, laptop snugged in front of him. Runs his hands abstractly through his hair in a whirl, around and around until he can stick a spare chopstick in the vortex on top of his head. Taps both index fingers on his lips with a faraway feeling on his face, suddenly smirks hard, dives his hands down and attacks the keys in a burst of activity. The screen fills. His mind is blissfully filled with summons and senior officers and loyalties.

Then he unfortunately can ignore his bladder no longer and rocks his computer back to the desktop with a frown, silently pads out and turns into the master suite to use the bathroom, gauzy midnight-blue harem pants (that he couldn’t resist because a) his middle name is comfort and b) _pretty,_ dammit) whispering around his legs. He gazes out the little window over the toilet as he goes, at the gorgeous color of the sunset. It’s that bruise-y orange-shading-to-brown on the horizon that he knows just means “air pollution in major metropolitan area” but his artist eye can’t help fawning over whenever it paints the sky. Something so lovely from something so terrible; there’s a lesson in there somewhere, but Haru’s too practical to figure it out.

Sousuke’s down in the pool. He SHOULD be up in the apartment with Haru, slamming through the latest chapter and volleying ideas and troubleshooting and snarking and arguing and laughing, but after they mostly finished their delivered pizza (another TOTAL fucking anamoly) he gave Haru an absolutely opaque look, pressed if he was _sure_ he didn’t want to join him swimming. Gave up wordlessly, looking like the Lord of Darkness as he stalked out the door in his pool pullover.

Talk about fucking backwards day – _Haru_ should be the one bitching to hit the pool, while Sousuke slave-drives to keep up the progress. But whenever a chance seemed to arise – ever since the completely _Twilight Zone_ moment at Monday’s dinner – when he could somehow bring it up to the giant guy, Sousuke somehow made that unhappen. Almost like … he’s hiding something. What, Haru has not the first fucking clue.

And _Haru_ sacrificed his beloved pool for the tried-and-true distraction of creation. Write, the mind is utterly consumed in the free-flow, the peaceful and mysterious act of _making shit out of nothing_ that always enchants him in any form (on canvas, in a pan, on a screen; he wishes he had the musical talent to add “on a stage” but inflicting his voice on the world would be a crime against humanity).

Swim, though, and the mind is dangerous. Able to wander around snooping in closets it shouldn’t, peering into any boxes that may be off limits. Usually, Haru keeps nothing tucked away in these sneaky places that he has to worry about, at least to himself – what the fuck would be the point of that? But now, though – but now…

Now, what could POSSIBLY explain two dudes showing up on Monday, popping up like a punchline to a totally random absurdist prank, the most avant-garde practical joke of all time? Looking just … like … them? Could’ve BEEN them?? Practically falling into them like even they didn’t fucking know what they were doing there, running out of there like they’d lifted all their wallets/purses when they’d done no such thing? Gou’s obviously-b.s. cover-up, when he’d assumed the woman who could kill a dude with a pinky was incapable of getting rattled?

That.

_Look –_

_–_ that he swore he’d seen a thousand times in a thousand contexts, squinting in fondness, falling in worry, widening in shock, beaming in delight…

…sorta _melting_ in something that Haru couldn’t find a word for in any language, in Japanese or English or Chinese or anything else he may or may not even speak…

…and he’s in a warm place, and it’s dark but it’s _light somehow_ (…wtf??), and he’s surrounded by _soft_ and _firm_ on all sides, everywhere, right/left up/down, and something is ruffling through his hair (…the breeze? A gentle hand?)…

…something is softly coming to rest on his forehead…

…a glow is spreading through him, scalp to shoulders to hips to toes….?

*

The sound of the penthouse door opening startles Haru awake, out of this _what the …_ he’s been in for _how the fuck…_ long, standing like some sort of robot somebody forgot to recharge. Standing stupidly in front of the toilet, with the extra-special touch that he’s actually holding his weiner, staring into the now-dark space out the window.

He hurriedly puts himself away and flushes, is diligently washing his hands when he looks up in the mirror to see Sousuke leaning against the doorframe, hair scrubbed damp and black terrycloth cover-up skimming his hips. He hasn’t even taken his legskins off, the ones that basically hypnotize Haru into taking a long lingering trip up/down his legs every damn time he sees ‘em on, the bastard.

“Good swim?” he says conversationally, turning to reach past Sousuke for the towel hanging on the door. His eyes pop open as the big man steps in, close, hands traveling down to rest at the very top of his ass.

“What … in the hell … possessed you to do _harem pants_ today, again?” he’s asking, eyes looking lazily down at the (VERY narrow) space between them, mouth more relaxed than Haru’s seen it all day.

Haru reaches behind himself and testily removes the hands, smacks them back against Sousuke’s chest. No fucker makes fun of his beautiful pants and he figures a scowl’ll be enough for communication purposes.

He brushes past, rudely close, slinks to the living room and bats the pizza box open to snag one of the last straggler pieces long since gone cold. Turns back to the kitchen to get a fresh bottle of water.

“Haru…” Sousuke’s saying, the sound of his name on the other man’s lips still so weird, such a little thrill of the unknown. He carries on seeking water, not giving any indication of the sudden uptick of his heartbeat. “I’m gonna get in the shower. Then there’s something you need to see. Alright?”

Haru can’t help a snort from inside the fridge. “You gonna finally – _finally!_ – share your My Little Pony collection with me, Sou?” Since their weird little level-up (shift-over move-ahead ???) he’s been consistently respectful of his full name – the three syllables having a weird percussive drama he secretly loves. But when he’s trying to be a little shit, it’s “Sou” all the way. He’s not sure what that says about him. Except that he’s a little shit.

He thinks Sousuke’ll be gone when he backs out of the fridge, his appetite for Haru’s lighthearted shenanigans approaching nil on the best of days. To his surprise the other man hasn’t moved. Has, in fact, taken the terrycloth cover-up off, stands very still in just the legskins, so solid and real and full of _life-force_ (Haru wants to kill himself for sheer crimes against originality) he almost punches a hole in space. Just holds the black cloth in one hand, his other splayed casually on his lower abdomen.

His voice is pure sex. “I think you’ll want to play with this much more. Meet me in the entertainment room.” Then turns and heads for the shower, leaving Haru doing his “accidentally-switched-off-robot” thing again, only this time it’s an open bottle of water starting to trickle onto the slate floor he’s holding instead of his dick.

*

Haru’s humiliated to say he’s sorta genuinely dying when Sousuke finally materializes at the door of the entertainment room, in one of his patented soft zip-up hoodies and sweats. He’s redone his stupid chopstick updo about seven times, checked a few suspicious moles, passed through four Sun Salutations (but he’s just going through the motions). He (carefully) tosses the graphic and tastefully illustrated coffeetable book on medieval torture devices on the coffee table and narrows his eyes at the big floofy body-pillow and folded comforter in Sousuke’s arms.

“So c’mon, if it’s not the Ponies, you gotta tell me. Voltron? Transformers?? You don’t seem like a Pokemon sorta guy but everyone has a secret side,” Haru says, but he’s curling up in a little cross-legged lump, the _not knowing_ really sorta needing to come to an end.

Sousuke’s not wasting any more time, beelining for the couch and tossing the bedding on the table in front of them. Haru narrows his eyes again.

He sits, grabs the remote but just gazes at the huge dark screen, looking for all the world like he’s _embarrassed._ Haru didn’t know Sousuke even had the facial-muscle capacity to do that. “Monday. When we saw those two guys at dinner… That wasn’t the first time I’d seen them.”

Haru deadpans at him. He wanted to get into this forever and now Sousuke’s beating him to it and he’s so dying to know he’s not even mad. He doesn’t even waste time with a snarky comment.

Sousuke clicks the remote, pulls up some big master menu on the mega-screen, navigates over to Web-TV. Haru watches mutely, in some bitter immature way enjoying the irony ( _oh, so HE gets the Internet for his little David Copperfield reveal moment?_ ), daring himself to offer Sousuke a look at his tumblr, if he wants. But quickly they’re on his bookmarks, opening a folder just marked “Same & Shachi”.

Haru squints, surprised. Sousuke’s secret is that he’s into nature programs featuring marine mega-predators? His _sexy_ secret?

He quickly learns that, oh no, Sousuke’s not into “sharks and orcas,” particularly, except when those are the (admittedly really cute) stage-names used by two guys. Two guys with a rich and varied adult entertainment videography.

That Sousuke appears to have completely bookmarked.

From the bits that Haru absorbs as Sousuke’s in the driver’s seat, navigating swiftly and with sleepwalker-levels of practice through the thumbnails and titles, he appears to enjoy both dudes. He has an overwhelming preference for “Same” over “Shachi” just by the sheer imbalance in titles bookmarked, though for all Haru knows SharkBoy could just be more prolific on-camera than OrcaMan. He also has a slew of titles grouped together featuring both names. _SameShachi…_ it almost sounds poetic. Or at least cute.

He finally rests the cursor very deliberately on one in this last group and clicks, pulling up a front-card of a title Haru gawks at before honking a helplessly un-Haru and Gou-esque laugh.

“ _Doin’ it Freestyle??_ ” he gasps, not even able to see beyond the garish “watery” blue bubble-letter title font, kicking Sousuke in total glee. Oh, but this was all worth it, this whole pervy revelation thing.

Sousuke glowers at him in perfect fulfillment of that verb. “Reserve judgment until we watch.”

Haru’s able to breathe, finally. “Oh, oh we’re gonna get to watch?? Omigod what did I do to deserve this oh my tender heart can’t take this gloriousness…” He leans forward and buries his head in Sousuke’s comfy thigh. Sousuke gently takes the points of his fingers so he isn’t bugging Haru’s hair sculpture, pushes until he’s sitting up again, turns his head to the screen.

“Look closely. Take your time,” he says, sounding like a crooked cop leading a witness at a lineup identification. “Do either of those guys look familiar? It may help to imagine different, oh, _hair and eyes._ ”

And Haru DOESN’T have to look closely, or take his time – in fact the understanding hits so hard he practically flinches back, the freeze-frame moment stored in his brain from Monday sliding together with the title-card pic on the screen, like prison doors crashing with a big melodramatic clang. Two wet, built guys in a locker room apparently caught in the act of helping each other off with their legskins, hands crossed as they yank at their tight waistbands, dipping down to expose their perfect iliac crests.

Littler Guy IS “him” from Monday – brows quirked where Haru’s are arched and chin pointed where his is curved, but otherwise he could send this guy in disguise to get his I.D. pictures taken for him. But in his ragged blood-red hair, wetly clinging to his face and trailing down as he lifts up to accept a kiss from the other man, and in his blood-red eyes, gazing into the other’s with utterly believable passion … well, Haru knows, KNOWS he’s laying eyes on Rob Miller in the flesh.

Bigger Guy … Bigger Guy –

Haru quietly stands and leaves the room.

*

He joins Sousuke back in the entertainment room after a swift walk around the apartment, a step out onto the ridiculously-decadent balcony that rings the big window-walls of the master bed, the night air strangely helpful to his hot cheeks. Sousuke looks up at him immediately as he comes in; he hasn’t made a move to come see what happened to him, but his face is the funniest mixture of concerned and quietly amused. Haru crosses the room and drops back into the couch, back to the armrest, legs out towards the big guy, who lays a hand down familiarly around his ankles.

“You OK?”

“What. The fuck,” Haru says eloquently. He screws up his courage to take another peek at the screen. Sees a big, big guy, big in every way, little guy has a nervous crackling vibrance while big guy has _gravitas,_ standing over the redhead, seizing his waistband like he could tear it in two, leaning down to hover _just above_ his lips with the slightest head-tilt to the camera that’s utterly familiar to Haru. His face is longer than Sousuke’s, his eyes “kinder” somehow, but as little guy could be him, big guy could be Sousuke. And with the longish hair dripping into his eyes, carelessly shaggy, chocolate-brown when wet, with the grass-green of his eyes memorizing the other man’s, Haru is looking at Lieutenant Michael Tanglewood.

And cannot explain how that can possibly fucking be.

“May I introduce you to Same and Shachi,” Sousuke’s saying, unnecessarily and so formally, like they’re actually meeting the guys at a tea party and not, ya know, about to see one guy pound the other guy in an undoubtedly hot yet deeply pathetic manner. Haru flops over his legs in a forward fold, giggling into his knees like he’s lost his everloving MIND. What. The fuck. Sousuke _still_ hasn’t answered him.

“You didn’t answer me, _Sousuke,_ ” he says without bothering to sit up. “What. The fuck?? So we’re writing our Great Japanese Romance Novel about a couple of porn stars?”

“Hmmm. Pretty judgy for ‘Mister Fuck the Mainstream,’” he says conversationally, and dammit if he isn’t right.

Haru sits up, and now Sousuke’s edged from “amused” over to “delighted.” Crinkled-eyes and everything. “Oh, no no no. You misunderstand. I’m cool with porn. REALLY. But you knew this all along, way back when we did our cutesy little ‘dream-guy’ exercise? Aren’t we gonna get in trouble for violating that, um, ‘This book is not based on any person living or dead’ thing?”

Sousuke’s ankle-hand is doing this really-distracting little massage that feels great and he can only assume is an offensive-diversionary tactic. “Hmmm. Guess I didn’t need to ‘introduce’ you to these guys after all since you were basing YOUR ‘dream-guy’ on Shachi, here.”

Haru blinks at him. “No. That’s what I fucking mean. I have NEVER in my long and storied porno-watching career laid eyes on either of these guys. _I,_ unlike _some_ people, used this little thing called ‘imagination’ when we did that exercise. Awesome thing. You should look it up.”

Sousuke’s turn to blink back. “That’s not possible. You must’ve been surfing around and come across them, stored it away in your subconscious somewhere, dragged it out on demand.”

“You calling me a liar now, Yamazaki?” Haru coos, crawling the couch to reach him and then making what he _thinks_ is a sneak-leap at the big man, full-on tickle-attack locked and loaded. But Sousuke’s apparently completely ready for him, catching both arms by the wrists, slllllowly extending both out until Haru’s balance is hopeless and he’s down, on Sousuke, narrow chest to broad.

Shit.

Sousuke’s smile is slow too as he leans, captures Haru’s mouth, and Haru feels the smile – unflagging – as the big man moves against him, with him, then in him as his slick tongue slides in. Haru’s moaning ( _why_ can’t he go ten seconds during sex without sounding like the biggest manga cliché??), tilting his head, fluttering his eyes closed, can’t move, can hardly breathe from the persistent feeling of someone else moving in, doing it for him, gusting through him.

Then his arms are so, so gently – so slowly – moved down, behind his back, crossed at the wrists, the big hands around them firm yet careful. It’s like the weirdest yoga pose he didn’t know he knew, Upward-facing Mermaid maybe, his seeking face gaining another deep kiss, and another, and he’s gasping now, gasping Sousuke’s name, and he doesn’t know when he started that.

Sousuke breaks them apart. Haru’s as pissed as a little kid who just had his toy snatched away. “Are you in the mood to … to fuck?” the big man asks, his voice low and shaking, and Haru’s stomach drops at the culmination of the signposts along the way today.

“What the fuck took you so long to ask?” he whispers, and Sousuke chuckles, close to him, he feels the gust of amusement against his face.

“I – I’d like to watch as we do it, if … that doesn’t creep you out,” he says, tilting them up to sit facing each other and Haru is just a seething little tornado of need, he struggles out of the hold, he grabs the big dumb beautiful face in front of him, he bites deliberately at the lower lip. Sousuke hisses quietly.

“Do I LOOK like that would creep me out?” he snaps, releasing Sousuke’s face and reaching up to get rid of the ridiculous chopstick in his hair.

“No – let me,” Sousuke husks, pushing his hands away, smoothly sliding it out and just _watching_ as his hair falls in a crazy torrent back down around his face. He reaches down and ruffles it, softly, using all of his ten fingers to seemingly marvel at his hair as he lets it run through.

Then he’s reaching further down, getting rid of Haru’s pink boat neck shirt before he knows what’s happening, and he’s realizing – this guy has a _fetish_ for undressing him! Or maybe not him specifically, but he certainly has a thing for “undressing” in general. Haru wonders idly if he played with dolls as a kid. Then he’s returning the favor, needing to see the chest in front of him bare just as badly, grabbing the zipper on the hoodie and splitting it with a sorta-hilarious cartoon _Ziiiiiip!_ Sousuke’s obligingly passive as he shoves it off, taking care over his shoulders. He tosses it away.

They sit, shirtless, facing each other for a moment, and then Haru’s falling softly forward, thinking _my GOD you are too fucking beautiful,_ as he splays his hands around one of his preposterous pectorals, fits his lips tentatively to the small dark nipple, sucks tenderly. He loves the feeling; he can hide his face, it’s safe, it’s pure comfort, the nipple responsive in his mouth, the sounds of Sousuke’s pleasure falling down around him like sakura petals in Spring. He pulls off, switches to the other. Big hands descend to cup his head, thread his hair.

Then Sousuke’s hands are pulling him off, and he’s sitting back on his heels with raised eyebrows. The big man tips a head to the screen. “Showtime?” he asks, and Haru nods wordlessly, stands and unties his harem pants so fast they’re gauzily fluttering to the ground before Sousuke has a chance to raise his brows. He kicks his jammers off right after.

“You,” he demands, pulling Sousuke to his feet and working his sweats down. Commando. His hectically-red erection is so delicious Haru’s diving forward without a second thought but is stopped by hands on his shoulders.

“Nope,” Sousuke smirks, walking him back a few steps then adding a “Stay.” Haru wants to bite him but then Sousuke’s dropping the folded floofy comforter on the floor, guiding him over, whispering “Kneel here,” in his ear. Haru thinks he understands. He settles gracefully on his knees on the comforter, grudgingly grateful for its softness, spreads himself out languidly on the body pillow on the table. It’s nice. More than nice, actually. He could fall asleep _right now …_ but he doesn’t think that’s what’s on the evening’s agenda.

He feels Sousuke settle on his knees behind him, feels the heat of his cock press between the very-bottom curve of his ass as he bends over him, settling heavily. Kisses Haru’s right ear, teeth traveling lightly down the curve, the weight of him the best blanket. Rocks into Haru’s crevice for a few increasingly breathless minutes, as Haru buries his face in the softness of the pillow and grabs the table’s edge, and Sousuke lays a hand on either side of his neck, humming low in his throat.

Then he’s gone, and Haru REALLY wants to bite him, but some cheesy theme music is starting, and he’s coming up to pillow his chin on his folded arms. “Oh my God. Okay, um, I can’t promise I won’t laugh during this, so _please_ don’t take offense. It won’t be you or anything you’re doing. Unless it is.” He snorts to himself, at _that_ title sequence again. No comment behind him (?) but he hears the sound of a bottle being pumped, hands rubbing together briskly; then those big hands are settling on his shoulders (he can’t help jumping, a little). Easing into a surprisingly-skilled back massage, strokes varying in style and strength, and Haru is _purring,_ and the “story’s” underway.

Locker-room. Same and Shachi are coming in, laughing as they head over to change from street clothes into their swimwear, and Haru’s transfixed. It isn’t the immediate, instant-gratification full-frontal nudity, both guys basically Greek gods, Shachi sorta a giant Apollo or Zeus figure (?) while Same has the quickness of a Hermes, or something (???). Or even the admitted visual stimulus of their two cocks, both beautiful and perfect for each man, perfectly proportionate (Haru can’t turn off the artist-thing even if he wants to).

It’s their _chemistry,_ their ease with each other, like they’ve known each other for years. The script is atrocious. But they deliver the lines so easily, smiling and squinting and hitting each other on the shoulders like it’s all real, like seeing each other naked is a familiar and even comfortable experience and not in the context of jaded professionals on a porn set.

They’re like boys getting ready for a swim-team practice. For real.

Haru’s eyes widen and he barely feels the fingers that deliberately find his pressure points, press and release them, travel to his ass and treat his glutes with the same care. “Oh my God. These guys know each other. These guys were on a _swim-team_ together.”

The hands are gone and Haru hears a pop-cap, slick sounds. “Hmmm? You stalking them now too?” Tiny chuckle. “I’m coming in, OK?”

He hardly hears Sousuke as their two uber-mystery guys have progressed to an impromptu – and totally lighthearted, playful, _believable –_ make-out session, SharkBoy pushing OrcaMan insistently against the lockers. Legskins (red- and green-accented, respectively; Haru’s artistic-sensibilities approve) just halfway up their thighs.

Then he gasps as a slick, warmed finger smoothly slides inside, first-knuckle, second, keeps going. “Ahhh…” he breathes as onscreen a big hand swoops around to Same’s pert and perfectly-shaped ass, does the _exact same thing,_ and the real-life/on-screen which-sensation-is-real? mind-fuck leaves his head swimming. He senses Sousuke feels the same – his free hand cupping Haru’s ass (possessively…?) is trembling minutely, and his fingers move in him with unusual intensity and deliberateness.

“Oh God…!” Same gasps – genuinely – onscreen, hanging from the big hand splayed across his upper-back.

“…God!” rips out of Haru, as big fingers thrust into him, pushing deeper and wider, and he _feels_ his rim stretch in the most bizarrely-delicious pain, so sharp and so specific. He’s teething his own forearm like a goddamn baby, he can’t take his eyes off the screen…

…and he begins to feel bad.

Just – _wrong._

Things are progressing rapidly on the video, the lovely redhead kneeling on the ground bent over a “locker-room bench” resting on his arms, the beautiful brunette kneeling behind him, legskins binding their thighs. Brunette is working his partner with such care, such diligence, such obvious affection (and love??). Moving one hand deep inside him, smoothing his other down his flushed erection with strong strokes, but so, so gentle. Redhead is moving his insanely flexible back with each stroke – down, down with his hand, up to begin again – dipping his flushed face into his arms again and again as he seems to be overwhelmed. Moaning, softly and incessantly.

And it’s wrong, they aren’t watching porn, it’s personal. Intimate. It’s a private sex-tape they’re seeing here, and he bets that’s the appeal, he’s sure that’s why Sousuke and Lord-knows how many other people have watched it, have watched _them._ And Brunette is pulling his hand free, leaning in in what is a clear violation of “porn protocol,” oh so slowly pushing in – bareback – as he’s laying the sweetest kisses up Redhead’s spine –

–and the smaller man is arching up in clear pleasure, reaching a fine, almost feminine hand back to grab Brunette’s powerful (…backstroker???) shoulder –

–and Sousuke’s pushing in too, mouthing up his spine, and Haru’s arching up reflexively as the scene gets just a LITTLE too cosplay for him to take.

“No, no, no,” Haru’s muttering, doing a push-up off the table as Sousuke, confused, continues inside him to the hilt. He shoves off the table and keeps his momentum going, some psycho nude porny version of the Bump where Sousuke’s flying out of him and landing on his couch, totally speechless. Haru spins to face him and is sorry to enjoy the priceless sight of a nude, befuddled, ramrod-hard and condom-sheathed Yamazaki Sousuke _quite_ so much, staring up at him with his mouth open as the sounds of SameShachi’s shared pleasure pick up behind him.

“…what??” Sousuke’s asking, part concerned, part offended. “Too fast? Too weird? What the fuck, Haru?”

“Just –” Haru starts, rolls his eyes hard, then turns and fumbles with the remote until the screen – somehow – goes black. The room is blissfully quiet.

Now Sousuke looks _pissed._ “You’re as big a porno-head as me, Haru. Probably bigger. Don’t you _dare_ pull some prude card now.”

Haru is seized with the need to explain himself – a near never-event with this man – and sits gingerly on the body pillow. He touches a knee with his fingertips.

“Okay. What that was? That’s not porn.”

Sousuke lets out an explosive snort. “Uh, yeah, I’m pretty sure it is.”

Haru shakes his head, violently enough his hair smacks his face. “No, you don’t understand. It may be graphic _sex,_ sure. But we aren’t watching two dudes go through some scripted fake fucking for our enjoyment.” He swallows, feeling suddenly sick. “We’re seeing two _boyfriends_ make love. And it really is none of our fucking business.”

Sousuke sighs – _oh, great, another weirdo idea from weirdo Haru, that weirdo_ – but to his immense credit leans forward, leather creaking, and grabs his hands. “ _How_ could you possibly know that.”

Haru seizes his offered hands and squeezes, hard; blazes his eyes into the other’s with the power of sudden conviction. “I just KNOW, Sou –” Notes his narrowed eyes at the accidental “pet name,” sweeps on. “These guys are together. It’s written – no, _painted_ all over them. They’re pure souls, good guys, they shouldn’t be in this. They _can’t_ be in this. It’s gonna _kill_ them.”

A good few minutes of utter silence. It may even be five. Haru maintains eye contact, pouring his worry through his eyes where his words have lost him. Sousuke’s go from incredulity to indulgence to blankness to a weird narrowing. He doesn’t try to get his hands away from Haru’s panicky-tight grip, though, so he’s got that going for him.

Then he sighs. Does the weirdest-fond thing where he leans over, kisses the tip of Haru’s nose (???). Haru blinks.

“What do you propose we do about it?” he asks, tiny-smiling.

***

Oh GAWD

So now we have some harebrained “SouHaru Rescue MakoRin” scheme in the works, a dangerously OOC Haru and Sou, the expontial complexity of reality-realities messing with book-realities, and a couple of erections that were rudely ignored. Of these pressing – nay, catastrophic – issues, I’m thinkin’ the last is gonna get resolved the easiest. Even if it was offscreen ;D

I searched high and lo for fanart of Haru with his hair up in a topknot (that image is haunting me) but struck out, so maybe I’ll have to suck it up and create some myself :)

(Sou apparently has the magical ability to make massage lotion and lube and condoms etc. just magically appear. Either that or those sweats have DEEP pockets!)

Oh oh! And if you ever wanted to Be Like Haru and learn [the Bump ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_gwshF-cP74);P


	19. High hopes

“NEWS FLASH”: wtf there is ANOTHER lovely piece of Harucentric fanart now in connection with this work, a deeply fetching [set of sketches of topknot!harempants!Haru](http://solidaduniverse.tumblr.com/post/106968588307/so-i-was-reading-the-new-chapter-of-you-and-me) from Ch. 18 by the lovely Solidad. Special props for the little touches of the necklace and esp. Hello Kitty chopsticks (OMG was gonna be having him taunt Sou about La Kitty instead of My Little Pony, and forgot :P). Not to mention how dang HOT your Harus look…! THANK YOU dear, I think you can guess who this chap is dedicated to ;) <3 <3 <3

***

Haru is secretly in awe of Sousuke’s powers of professional persuasion.

He sat listening on the little loveseat in the study – sorta disturbed / fascinated – as Mister Wheel-and-Deal easily breezed past the first gatekeepers at Same and Shachi’s production company, his voice so smooth, so _MAN,_ Haru got a little scared he would start hysterically giggling in the background and blow the call.

But he didn’t, and Sousuke reasonably explained to the guys’ “agent” (“pimp”? … :/) that he and his writing partner from Tokyo’s premier gay erotica publishing house would be _very_ interested in discussing a possible business opportunity with them. Oh, yes, they had heard of their particularly “fresh” approach to scenarios. ( _Oh, no, they were in NO WAY thinking of poaching their two top attractions away … oh, NO!)_ Yes, they would be grateful to have the time and place shared with the guys to meet if they chose; they sure understood how much drooling and sometimes dangerous contact with the public the company had to deflect on their behalf…

No … no, Haru would NOT have been able to do any of that on his own.

So they sit on Friday afternoon, in a quiet corner of the meeting place of their choice, which Sousuke let him have and which Haru knew had to be his favorite coffeeshop. You would think the pervy subject matter that was bound to come up would have to be saved for a private setting, but Haru felt otherwise. He wanted to give them as wide a symbolic escape route as possible for what could be a highly uncomfortable experience for them. He also was very familiar with the uncanny invisible privacy bubbles that drop over tables at coffee shops – it was truly nosebleed-inducing what people felt comfortable discussing there. Haru didn’t get it, but figured it could work for them.

More simply, it just … _felt_ right – and Haru knows 99.999% of this thing is basically just gonna be decided by a big, messy ball of feelings. Is gonna depend on how well he and Sousuke – and really, _he_ , this was his sudden need – are able to reach out with their words. To convince them they have their best interests truly at heart. To keep things as friendly, persuasive, kind, concerned, casual, yet passionate as possible.

Basically: they’re screwed.

Haru tents his fingertips on his forehead, shielding his eyes – and the way-too-scary view of the door – from view. His _decaf_ herbal tea (???) steams away forgotten next to him. He’s so freaked he’s practically prepared to launch into an out-of-body experience, though he knows he’s utterly still, calm, Zen to anyone looking over.

Sousuke knows better, sitting next to him, rocked back in his comfy-shabby chair with one arm casually draped behind Haru’s seat. He sips his double-espresso, puts it back on the table.

“Mmmm. Good coffee, Haru. Nice place, actually; cozy.” He shifts comfortably, recrosses his long legs. “I bet someplace casual like this will help, put them at ease.”

Haru scoffs violently behind his hand-shield. “Pffft. Yeah. That’s if they’re gonna show. Which they aren’t.”

“Ah. That negativity thing again.” His (writing partner? Nemesis? Fuckbuddy? Friend? ???) says this thing that could’ve been lifted from their very first meeting, at that _other_ coffee shop; but his voice, his voice is so different. So soft. It could be two different men colliding in Haru’s brain, past-Sou and present-Sou, and he doesn’t have time to wonder about it, because –

Sousuke, conversationally: “They’re here.”

Haru pops upright, stares giant-eyed at the door where – to the sound of tinkling bells hanging against the glass – a _very particular_ pair of guys is entering. For the barest second, Haru’s panicked that they forgot to let them know what they look like, then realizes just how fucking preposterous that is given their, uh, history –

And “Same” and “Shachi” are making their way without hesitation to their corner table.

“Matsuoka Rin!” The lovely redhead is saying as he arrives first, and Haru finds himself dizzied by him, by his beauty, his beaming dancing-eye dangerous-grinning happiness. He and Sousuke are suddenly standing to receive them, and Matsuoka ( _Matsuoka? …_ ah yes, Matsuoka…)is quirking an eyebrow (THOSE eyebrows) as he nervously runs a hand through his hair (THAT hair) and darting his eyes (those eyes…) from he to Sousuke and back. “So! Which one of you is Yamazaki and who’s Nanase?” Lovely voice, to match him; so much smooth inflection, so surprisingly deep, so musical. Haru’s hit with the mystery of whether or not he can sing.

Sousuke’s taking it, and Haru loves him for it, because it’s all he can do at the moment to stand back, to drink Matsuoka in with his eyes. JUST him for now; he’s always been crap at multitasking. He’s the most-fascinating collection of angles; there isn’t anything straight about him, really, as he turns to Sousuke in this perfectly-bro slouchy way, gives him some sort of “edgy” handshake Haru thinks will NOT be taught in business schools alongside Rei’s. And he’s proud of Sousuke, he seems totally in his element, and isn’t even drooling at/on him. Pretty awesome considering it IS his ultimate dream-guy he’s meeting.

He’s even taking it a step further and _introducing him._ “Matsuoka-san, I’d like to introduce my writing partner –”

“Nanase Haruka!” the redhead is enthusing, like he’s meeting someone fucking hot or famous or hot and famous, instead of, you know, Haru. “Oh my God, I CANNOT BELIEVE you guys were willing to do this with us today!” And he’s grabbing him, just _pile-driving into_ him, hugging him so tightly for a second that Haru has trouble breathing. His head’s turned to Sousuke as Matsuoka smashes into the other side of his neck, and the big man is a stone statue. An _angry_ stone statue. He beams mortified eyes up to him, mouths “I’m sorry.” This isn’t HIS dream guy…!

Then he finally sees the other half of their mystery duo sort of leaping in, inserting himself gingerly in Sousuke’s space as Haru watches. Watches –

“Hi! Tachibana Makoto! It is a real pleasure to finally meet you, Yamazaki-san,” this … this gentle, _improbable giant_ is beaming, and holding out a perfectly-formed hand like he’s meeting an old friend and not a more-or-less stranger, and it’s working – Sousuke’s scowl’s quirking into a smile, and the two are vigorously shaking. Crinkling their eyes level with each other, turquoise meeting grass-green, warmly.

Then Matsuoka’s releasing him and holding him at arms’-length – and he is _flushing._ Absolute-maroon, practically glowing to bust right out of his angular cheeks, and Haru suddenly curses the lack of his paints. All these new colors, no way to capture them…

“Hi…” Haru finally manages through what feels like a pinhole in his throat. He clears it and tries again. “We are so, so happy you guys were willing to meet us too. I sorta can’t believe it, actually. Thought you were gonna stand us up.”

Matsuoka narrows his eyes at him dangerously. “Um, stand you up? The two manipulative fu – I mean, _geniuses,_ who’ve made our lives a living hell ever since we laid eyes on your goddamn names?” Lopsided grin.

“Rin!!” Gentle Giant – _Tachibana Makoto,_ Tachibana Makoto, the sound is poetry – is scolding him. Scolding. Like an embarrassed / disappointed giant uber-butch _mom._ And the redhead’s _tsk-_ ing and rolling his eyes – like Haru – but there’s an undeniable good-humor about their voices, body-language, in what he senses is an old and comfortable script for them, about the whole thing, and he can feel the smallest smile blooming on his face.

As all his fear and worry is seeming to melt away.

As Tachibana is nodding sagely at Sousuke – getting a grave nod back – and turning to him.

“Hi, Nanase-san! The pleasure is all ours,” he’s saying softly, almost sweetly, and his head is descending, tilting as if he’s considering Haru, and his eyes are telling Haru “You can trust me,” and his smile is slow, and it’s saying “It – is – _so – good –_ to see _you…,”_ and his hand is extending into space…

“Haru,” he blurts. From the corner of his eye he sees Sousuke’s eyes go wide, lips go straight. “Haru, please.” And puts his hand in the other man’s.

It feels good.

Better than almost anything.

“Yeah! Shit, we’ve known some, uh, personal stuff about each other. This family-name thing is a little ridiculous given our thing together, right, _Sousuke?”_ Giant grin. Those rising-falling syllables that Haru has come to love sound so damn good falling from that grin. Sousuke smirks – _bro-fists the redhead_ over their held-hands (!!!).

“Rin.” A single syllable, but Sousuke’s bass brings it something … something else. Something deep.

Tachibana – _Makoto –_ releases him, and he feels the loss far more than is at all logical. “So!” he smiles to them. “Sousuke, Haru, what can you recommend here? We ate an actual lunch earlier but _someone –_ ” Meaningful look at Rin. “ _–_ is always up for a little snack.” Makoto ( _Makoto…_ ) gets a light smack on the back of his head for that.

Haru has the utterly foreign experience of three blazing-hot dudes’ attention trained uniquely on him. Well … three blazing-hot dudes, who he’s more-or-less just met, who he actually cares about, who are waiting expectantly for him to speak. His head informs his body that it’s considering separating and just, ya know, floating away peacefully, so as to put an end to all this totally silly and unnecessary DRAMA.

“Anything with espresso is fabulous; great tea drinks too, really creative. I love their edamame – they use chili and garlic and it’s totally addictive. If you do sweet their flourless chocolate torte is an orgasm in wedge form.”

Sousuke smirks ( _shoulda got the torte,_ that look says), while Rin and Makoto trade smiling looks in a funny we-just-found-what-we-want exchange. Nodding thanks to Haru, they head to the counter while Haru and Sousuke sit back down at the table.

“Omigod,” Haru gusts. His eyes are stuck on the pair as they order like looking away will cause them to blow away in a crazy-superstitious _poof!_ of green and red smoke.

“What do you think?” Sousuke asks him, low, mouth hidden by his tall cup as he sips his espresso. “Weird seeing them in the flesh, huh?”

“Well, shit, I’ve at least just had them in my mind _hypothetically_ this whole time. You’ve practically seen their fucking colonoscopies,” he whispers back, suddenly the Sahara and grabbing the tea, gulping. Sousuke chokes on his coffee and snorts it all back into his cup, giant shoulders shaking. He slides his eyes to Haru – _good one –_

Then leans to him, no warning, turns his face with a light finger, kisses him so very lightly on the lips.

Leans back and sits casually forward, resumes his appreciative espresso-consumption…

…and Haru just sits, in the shabby-chic chair, mouth parted just a bit, little hands wrapped around his giant mismatched mug, _staring_ at Sousuke. Their first public kiss. First public act of ANYTHING, really. Like a couple of goddamn boyfriends. Couple of boyfriends hanging decadently out on a Friday afternoon at their fave hipster coffee shop, intimately snugged on the same side of the table, making snarky comments about hotties across the room, and not … _whatever_ they are.

Rin and Makoto meanwhile are coming back, double-espresso and big bowl of edamame in Rin’s hands, tall-whipped-cream-something and – yes – chocolate torte in Makoto’s. Haru squints and sees the giant ridiculous sugar-coma drink has fucking _candy hearts_ sprinkled on top, _Be Mine_ and _Too True_ and _Kiss!_ He wonders if he’s hallucinating, if he’s about to wake up maybe, possibly totally wrinkled in his bathtub.

Rin’s rapping at him as they settle in. “…so you must be some salesman, _Haru,_ ‘cause as you’ll see we went with everything you suggested. Makoto may fall into some diabetic shock though. Have to be ready to call 119.” Makoto just delicately pushes into the torte with his fork, opens his generous mouth, pulls it off the tines with his teeth. Oh so subtly works his jaw, flutters his ( _lovely –_ ) eyes closed.

Starts to moan. Very discreetly.

“Ohhh…. Ohhh… Uhhh…”

Two mouths _gape_ as he swiftly builds his chocorgasm, eyes squinting in near-pain, other hand grabbing Rin’s frantically. He finishes in quiet triumph by tossing his head back, and Haru and Sousuke are treated to his sculptural Adam’s apple as it bobs.

“I’ll have what SHE’S having,” Rin smirks, teething the beans out of a pod.

Haru and Sousuke are genuinely useless for a minute or so, as Rin continues to mow through the edamame and Makoto happily eats his cake.

“Um. SO.” Sousuke clears his throat. “Thanks again to both of you for being here. It’s great to finally meet you.”

Rin again; Haru’s getting a sort of “Chihuahua” vibe from him while Makoto is projecting “Golden Retriever,” which doesn’t really capture their size accurately but seems right for their auras, or something. “Yeah! SO, what is UP with that? Why us?? Why base Rob and Michael on _us_? Of all fucking people?”

“Rin!!” Makoto, under his breath, like Sousuke and Haru weren’t sitting _right across the table._ “Change the subject?” _Tiny_ voice.

Haru trades a look with Sousuke of surprising non-verbal understanding. Suddenly their presence at Dolce Vento on Monday – and particularly their cartoon-character-worthy bat-out-of-hell flight out of there – is beginning to make sense.

“I take it you’ve been getting drafts from the folks at ReadFree?” Sousuke says, very neutrally, and Haru feels bad; they both look stricken, suddenly, like they might throw up or pass out, though Rin projects _sneaky_ while Makoto’s handling _guilty._

“We are SO very sorry, gentlemen,” the brunette is saying very seriously – almost mournfully – Rin instantly looking at him, seemingly surprised. “We insist that you hold _us,_ and only us, responsible for our possibly-illegal actions.” He flinches as Rin apparently does something painful to him under the table. “The staff person at your publisher was absolutely clear of the seriousness of what we were doing. And we had every chance to say no.”

“Agreed. But in our defense, this is NOT a typical situation,” Rin interjects, hand on Makoto’s forearm. Haru finds himself lost for a moment in the sight of that particularly well-formed hand so-casually lying on his quiet, tanned strength – Makoto is wearing a red-plaid flannel, rolled up to expose those arms, halfway-unbuttoned over a black V-neck so fitted, it’s bringing back anatomically-correct flashbacks of _Doin’ it Freestyle!_

Haru comes back to himself making full-on eye-Makoto-pec contact, as Rin’s arguing that _them_ violating the “no resemblance to persons living or dead” clause negates _them_ violating the “intellectual property” situation. Sousuke’s scoffing in dark amusement. “Think I heard that one on _Law and Order: Criminal Fuckheads,_ ” he says.

Rin’s pouting, but Haru actually agrees with him, and touches Sousuke’s arm. He knows what special torture it is to wait and wait for information that is a long time coming. “We made you guys up, if you can believe that. Did a standard exercise when starting a new book … well, when _Sousuke_ starts a new book, called a character sketch. Let your mind go, dream of _who do I WANT this guy to be?_ Looks, and how those looks reveal who they are inside.”

He’s sorta lost, thinking as he talks, and comes back to himself, finding that singular experience of teal, bloodred, and midsummer-green trained on him, sorta transfixed. He suddenly realizes it’s all about being the taciturn one: shut the fuck up, and whatever you DO say automatically is treated with exponentially-more attention.

“…but how can that be?” Makoto is asking, very hesitantly, face touched by what Haru is sure is fear, and _he_ is irrationally compelled to comfort the big man, reassure him that there’s nothing to worry about, Sousuke’s just a mega-porn-addict and everything makes perfect sense.

But he can’t scare them away. And that explains NOTHING about his completely bizarre connection to the beautiful man before him.

He compromises, stretching a hand across to gently pat Makoto’s hand where both curl protectively around his deflated mocha, seeing his eyes go huge. “I … I think some things don’t have to make sense. I think sometimes we wish for things in our lives and by pure stupid coincidence they fall in our laps.” He stops, goes on without thinking. “Just so you know, I’d be perfectly OK with lap-falling if it happens.”

Three sets of eyes are staring at him, with three jaw-drops as a bonus.

“Uh. Well. I think we get to ask _you_ guys now,” Sousuke starts, slowly, looking at him oddly. Rin and Makoto are both still staring at him, Rin with a beanpod hovering halfway to his mouth. “THOSE disguises. Prank? You guys punking us?”

“Were you NOT listening to pervy-boy, there, lugnuts?” Rin fires at him, getting a mortified poke from Makoto in the side and shoving him off. He points at Sousuke accusingly with the bean. “We knew you knew us, top to bottom, so had hair/makeup do us up. And that is LITERALLY what they came up with. Total fucking coincidence. Weird, but I guess these things happen.” He squints at them. “It’s _way_ weirder that you would give Rob _shark-teeth,_ of all things.”

Haru’s steeling himself to turn to the whole reason they’re there – opening his mouth to talk – and is stopped by a pleased “Hi! Good to see you!” next to the table. They swivel and Haru sees the cute brunette barista from the other day, having a _little_ too much fun doing a thorough yet rapid once-over of the entire table fast enough to stay on-task, and somehow not look skeevy in the process. Haru’s impression of her bumps way up; maybe he’ll have to ask for pointers sometime. “Having fun?”

Haru feels _his_ cheeks wanting to blush at the sorta harem he’s in today, sternly tells them “NO.” “As much as you _can_ have in a work meeting. I lobbied to have it here.”

Makoto’s smoothly taking over. “Oh, we most certainly are! And we’re very glad it’s here – your cake? Oh my GOD.” He just _looks_ at her and Haru watches with almost clinical interest as her round cheeks go from ivory to just-put-my-face-on-the-stove in 3.2 seconds.

She smiles awkwardly, flutters her hands. “Well … well, great! Please, don’t hesitate to let me know if you guys need anything.” Hurries straight back to the counter without circulating further.

Sousuke makes a low, amused whistle. “Damn, sir. You bi?”

Haru glares at him – _wtf, personal-question much, ya ape?? –_ but Makoto just lets out the prettiest little musical giggle that UTTERLY DOES NOT COMPUTE WITH HIS STATURE and Haru could just sit and listen to and listen to and listen to –

“Oh, not in the least. I actually didn’t know _who_ I was for a surprisingly long time – figured it out for sure after college, which I know isn’t at all the norm –”

Rin’s butting-in on him, A-gain. Haru’s getting the impression this happens on the quarter-hour. “And THAT’S with me in his face all that time! Can you believe that?”

Haru scoffs, and Rin narrows glimmering eyes at him, and pelts him with a little handful of used beanpods. Makoto tuts at him. Like, actually tuts. _Tuts._ “ANYway. Nope, I did my share of dating girls and then women. But I should’ve known it wasn’t for me when instead of having sex, we’d always end up window-shopping together or more likely, I’d listen while they bitched about their moms.”

“Poor Makoto,” Haru says, again without a second thought, and Rin and Sousuke smirk like he’s teasing him, but the brunette just sits gazing at him quietly for a moment, so, so still, like he just noticed something and he needs to wait while the moment rolls across him…

Haru shakes his head briskly. “So before the barista scoped you all out, I was about to tell you why we’re all here.” He takes that breath again, forces himself to draw deep and let it fill him up like water. Give him good luck to do this right. “We came across a video of yours. And it really, really made us think.”

Absolute quiet at the table. Unlike the last – borderline-indecent – stares he got from the three the previous times he spoke, they’re watching him softly, discreetly, if at all. Sousuke has his eyes across the table at Makoto and Rin.

“So … as we watched, a few things began to dawn on us. The most obvious thing was that you two are together – which, seeing you here, is pretty damn clear.” Rin is blushing hectically; Makoto’s looking at him with concern, snaking a comforting hand under the tabletop. “Not that there’s any rule against that, you should get to do whatever you want. But – but –”

He swallows, struggling with how to express the sudden _perversion_ of seeing something so sweet, so beautiful up on Sousuke’s giant screen, like it was the biggest highest-tech keyhole ever.

“This video. You guys were having sex for the camera, sure. But I’ve been writing smut for a very long time, and that … that was _not_ porn. That was you guys making love, enjoying each other like you have every right to do, but with all us – _perverts_ getting off on using you for our own enjoyment,” and now he’s almost _snarling,_ careful to keep it very quiet now that they’ve reached THIS portion of the meeting.

He pauses to collect himself and is surprised – and fiercely glad – to see a suspicious gleam in both men’s eyes. Oh, it looks like they may have an idea of what he’s talking about, alright. He certainly doesn’t want to hurt them with his words. But to see that he maybe, just maybe is making sense –

He’s seized with sudden, blazing hope.

“Okay. Now here’s the part where you may want to call me a presumptuous asshole even more. Watching you guys … comparing that to the lots, LOTS of other porn I’ve seen … mmm, it was sorta like if you’ve only ever seen horrible, tacky fake plastic flowers your whole life, stiff, don’t smell like anything but plastic. But then you see a REAL bouquet, all kinds of flowers, and the colors, the smells, everything just jumps out at you.” He swallows. They’re totally spellbound.

“And the REAL bouquet belongs no place you would find those nasty fake ones.”

Rin and Makoto trade a swift glance, and Haru sees despair there, maybe unexpectedly, and then they turn their eyes to him, Rin’s welling with one overspilling tear, two, Makoto’s _angry._ But – but not at him. He knows this, but he doesn’t know how.

He’s going on, he meant to stop, it’s not like him to go on – but he can’t help it. Has to _will_ himself to keep it down. “And that’s what’s shitty. You guys? You beautiful, sweet, smart, funny guys, in _porn?_ Giving those gifts to _porn?_ It makes me so fucking mad. Porn is no place for you. Porn doesn’t _deserve_ you.” He has to stop to calm himself down for a second. “AND – please don’t think I think you just woke up one morning going ‘Hmmm! I believe my life-calling is porn!’ ‘Cause I know it doesn’t work that way. It’s a fucking ugly world and people never have the choices they think they do.”

Silence again. Haru sits back, exhausted suddenly, leaning into a hand. Rin’s tears are in total free-fall now, and the sight is weirdly feminine, beautiful, so sad. Sousuke’s watching Haru, very still, leaning into his hand too like they’re in a mirror.

He adds on maybe the most important thing. “I want you to know I do NOT mean to tell you you’re stupid, or wrong, or most-importantly that I know what you can do better. I think there is no bigger turnoff than people who think they know what you should do with your life. ‘Cause that is, pardon, a fucking crock AND an insult.”

Haru can sense Makoto is struggling with something, is trying to figure out if he can shape something Mount Everest-sized down into word-size. It’s hard for him, he can tell, and he also knows from the minimal time they’ve been together that this is a man for whom the spoken word is his friend. Unlike HIM, for instance … at least in ways that are conventionally socially acceptable.

…and then Sousuke is turning deliberately to them, jumping in, for the first time, and –

“I’m guessing money’s a big issue, you guys maybe got into this for money reasons, definitely in it and dependent on the money you get out of it now.” Haru turns to sudden granite in his seat, the words slamming into him all-wrong. Across the table, Rin just listens, eyes-wide, through his tears, but Makoto … Makoto’s open face is darkening as obviously as the sudden chill when a cloud passes over as you’re lying in the sun…

“I want you to know I’m prepared to take care of that for you. You need to go back to school, pick up a different trade? I can foot the bill. I can fund you until you find new jobs, pay rents. You lose apartments, you’re welcome to relocate and move-in with me, if you want. I have a –”

_oh god oh god DON’T TALK ABOUT THE PENTHOUSE IN AZABU PLEASE as sweet a gesture this may be –_

“–penthouse in Azabu, tons of space, lap pool. Be great to have either of you – hell, I’d be glad to take you both.”

–and that’s it. That’s the end. Haru blew it, a bare 30 seconds or so and he fucking _blew it._ Because Makoto is stone. Absolute motherfucking MASK of … of nothing. He’s very gently pushing his chair back, he’s rising (so, so tall … Haru gazes stupidly up at him from his chair). He’s gently guiding Rin to do the same and his specific gravity is so deadly the smaller man does it, even as Haru feels Rin has no desire to leave at all.

“I think we aren’t interested in the … _arrangement_ you have in mind,” he says politely, and so, _so coldly._ “We’ll be leaving now. We’d also like to please ask that you not try to contact us again. However, as a precaution, we’ll be letting our agent know we don’t wish to receive any further communication from you.”

He pushes in their chairs.

“Very sorry.”

Then he turns crisply, softly turns the redhead – big arm floating up to come protectively around his narrower shoulders – and they’re gone.

***

AH GDI SOUUUU

Soooo … to my fellow MakoHaruers (& any OT4/5ers who may be here with me): I swear, promise, cross my DAMN HEART I’m not jerking you around! (Do I LOOK like a jerk to you? Wait – don’t answer that :P). I’m finding OT-any-number is … complicated. ‘Cause what it comes down to is immature nursery-school-level “I want THAT” feelings. You want your fave character happy? He’s happy with one guy AND another guy? And – maybe another ANOTHER guy? Well … that all doesn’t happen overnight, ya know.

(pls rest assured: I hate “angst”. Hate it. Makes me so angry. Break out in hives. So you’re safe with me :))

K. To (maybe) cheer you up if you’re at all bummed out, [you really should watch this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZluzt3H6tk) and imagine Mako and his flourless chocolate torte. Even if you’ve seen it. B/c Makochocorgasm ;)


	20. …come crashing down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gomen :/ ... hang in here with me, beautiful people!

Haru waits until the sickly-incongruous happy-jingle of the door bells has fully stopped before standing. He lifts his messenger bag. He floats vaguely to the door. Behind him, he feels the totally disorienting presence of Sousuke, coming quietly at the same sedate pace, no attempt to muscle past or make a single move to touch him. He thinks he may hear a “Thanks again for coming…!” from the nice brunette barista, cheerfulness edged over bleeding sympathy. He can’t be positive.

Out front, he turns to head away to the train station. A hand stops him on his wrist and he flicks his head back to see Sousuke for the first time, looking guilty and maybe angry. He’s got nothing on Haru. Haru, who has his full impervious mask on but can’t seem to control his eyes, no, he doesn’t know how Sousuke doesn’t spontaneously combust from his gaze alone.

“Let go of me, please,” he says. Quiet. Dead.

Sousuke’s not giving this up. “Let me give you a ride home. At least let me do that.”

“Hmmm, I think I’d rather get some pervy molester-type to drive me. Whoops, too soon?” Haru spits with sudden and probably unjustified satisfaction, then instantly regrets it as he watches the face he’s become so familiar with darken dangerously, sorta collapse downward.

“Sorry. Let’s go,” Haru amends quietly.

*

The drive to his place is brief – he lives in the neighborhood – and icy-silent. The most uncomfortably-quiet they’ve ever been together, maybe. Haru stares out the window like it’s his job, both hands stacked on top of each other clutching his bag’s strap across his chest, legs pressed together. He has no idea what Sousuke’s doing. He just knows he doesn’t even bother turning the stereo on, for techno or business news or anything else. Just keeps that thick silence.

They pull up at his building. Haru thinks of when he repeated these actions in reverse, so recently and yet seemingly hundreds, thousands of years ago. He locking his apartment door, tapping his cat’s-eye shades down as he hurried down the utility stairwell, holding the handle of the outer door _just so_ because there was no way you could get out otherwise (fire-code violation much?). Experiencing the weird mixed cocktail of feelings as he strode to the Jag idling at the curb: butterflies fluttering madly in his stomach at the impending intervention-style meeting; lingering embarrassment at his clear betrayal of his people (“look at that hipster-wannabe, riding in his Jaguar!”); the obvious, unavoidable thrill as this beautiful man at the wheel glanced at him as he slid in, looked over the edge of his _own_ dark shades, smiled, reached over and squeezed his thigh.

This man who as he reaches for the handle, gets into it.

“You DO know what I was trying to do, right? That I was trying to help?”

Haru abandons the handle and turns to him. “Oh, Sousuke. I think I do know. You tried. And fuck if we shouldn’t have worked all that out beforehand, which is totally my fucking fault. This whole THING is my fucking fault.” He pauses, feels the slightest prick of traitorous tears at the corners of his eyes as he stares angrily, helplessly into his skinny lap. Sousuke is silent, waiting. “What the FUCK were we thinking? We were gonna break a couple of sex workers out of the industry? You and me?? We’re not fucking social workers!” He laughs – jagged, ugly. “I’m all ‘Oooh, you guys are beautiful flowers, go be beautiful flowers in a field someplace.’ Then you come in and basically offer to be their pimp. BIG success.”

Sousuke opens his mouth to speak but Haru has a tiny bit left. Just a bit. He’s never been more exhausted, he thinks. “Well, say this for ya. At least YOUR part was fucking constructive. More than you can say for mine.”

“…What I was GOING to say, _Haru –_ ” And he’s leaning deeply over the console between them, hand on Haru’s knee, the other along his upper back, and Haru is fucking confused again, the big man’s intentions totally confusing. “What I was _going_ to say is that I’M the one who fucked this up. Any fool could see. I really meant the best, I _don’t_ intend to be anybody’s pimp, okay? I just happen to have a shitload of, just-plain _stuff_ most people aren’t lucky enough to have and if that would help those guys get out of there successfully, that would make me happy.”

Haru blinks up at him stupidly and it appears now that it’s _Sousuke’s_ turn to not be done yet. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ try to blame yourself for what happened in there. Listening to you…? What you said? It was – it was beautiful. The words you used were beautiful, the fact you reached out to those dudes at all was beautiful. The fact that you didn’t plan any of it was beautiful – that’s so not like me, Haru, to be so unscripted.” His turn to pause, and with his pause he beams his turquoise eyes into Haru’s with a force he’s never seen, and Haru just gapes back at him.

“… _You’re_ beautiful.”

And leans further still, and Haru feels like the quiet creak of the leather is being imprinted in some weird deep place in his memory, and so are the big gentle fingers sliding into the hair on the far side of his head, and half of him (or more??) is despair, and the other half (or more?? Less??) is elation, and Sousuke is tilting his big beautiful stupid rash generous privileged talented asshole head in so carefully, and Haru…

…Haru gives up on his frontal lobe, on whether this is sending a mixed message or he’s being a hypocrite to the current fucked-up state of affairs, on thinking, basically, and accepts the kiss. And it’s simple and straightforward and strangely sweet, and Haru pulls away just as confused and sad, but with the weirdest feeling of … _support._ Of feeling just the infintessimalest (???) bit less like HE utterly-fucked the last possible chance to help Same and Shachi (no … _Rin_ and _Makoto_ ).

He’s moved to rest his forehead on Sousuke’s for a moment, the tears waiting patiently in the wings for when he can be alone, looking down. Sousuke’s hand has dropped to his upper back again, heavy and warm.

It’s so very tempting to stay there but he knows he can’t; it’s like some happy limbo where he can shut his brain off and float but there’s a gnawing feeling growing in his gut the longer he sits. He sighs and looks up, into the face before him (that has somehow simplified into just _beautiful_ in these few minutes). Raises his hands, cups his sloping cheeks, leans in for a fast kiss back, a sort of acknowledgement if not full-return.

“Thank you,” he whispers. And turns quickly to get out of the car, hurry to his front door.

“Wait!” Sousuke’s out too, driver’s side ajar, jogging around to stop him on the sidewalk. Touches his wrist. “Don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to be alone after all that. Want me to come up?”

Haru smiles to himself – being alone is the ONLY good idea he thinks he’s had today. “I just can’t. We’ll talk later, OK?” He pats the big man’s chest, so warm under his navy tee, and vanishes into his building.

*

He stares up at the ceiling of his bathroom, wishing he’d put stars up there, too, maybe nebulas and comets and supernovas and black holes (though he doesn’t know how that would translate in Day-Glo). He has no idea how long he’s been in the water; he purposely keeps no clock in this room, and it’s gone lukewarm then tepid then cool on to cold, and when he couldn’t stand that he dumped in a fresh jolt of hot and refilled his vat of a basin.

Then repeated the cycle. Twice.

He turns his detached attention to imagining all the possible classic artwork he could copy up there, so as he lays in this favoritest of favorite places he has something nice to look at. Kahlo, Michelangelo, el Greco, Matisse…hmm. Maybe a big version of a David Hockney pool watercolor would be perfect.

…and his bathtime partner – that he’s never invited – can lie back and look with him.

What the FUCK was Sousuke doing? What the fuck was HE doing? Was that a confession? As good-as, in the world of this guy, who lives this totally charmed and foreign existence where he moves fast, meets men anywhere, _everywhere,_ is in bed with them practically minutes after learning their names? What the fuck is _Haru_ to a guy like that, anyway? Haru, who’s little and weird and awkward and random and so _very_ not-smooth, who has negative-experience as Sou himself dug him with at one point? How the FUCK would a walking men’s-magazine spread like Sousuke think he – _he –_ was beautiful?

Haru dunks viciously into the water, floats to the bottom, blinks up at the wavering silvery dimness above.

And what the fuck did he hope would happen with these _other_ two guys? What was he really doing – _really?_ What right did he have to call them together under basically-false pretenses, maybe even get their hopes up there was some REAL opportunity waiting for them with these two guys they’d been enjoying reading, then just slam them out of nowhere with a basic indictment of their lifestyle. Slap them with all kinds of intimate and uncomfortable shit in a completely public place, these men they’d only just met. Get them to cry. To fucking _cry._

Haru’s chest begins to ache, to pound. He stubbornly ignores it and continues gazing up, idly noting the hypnotic dance of the water.

That shameless flirting. He calls this meeting with these two guys _knowing_ they’re together, has seen with his own two eyes and had it corroborated by Sousuke these guys are as much a couple as can be. At the same time thinking maybe possibly could-be _he and_ _Sousuke_ maybe possibly could-be together (???). And he’s fucking flirting with both of them. With _Sousuke’s_ dream guy! Checking him out a hundred times as obviously as that barista had, accepting that giant bear hug. With his own; acting like they’d known each other their entire lives. Touching him, comforting him, feeling those weird mind-read-y feelings. Offering his given NAME, for God’s sake. What was wrong with him?? Was this his patented pathetic “gay pretty-much virgin” issue rearing its ugly head yet again?

The throbbing can’t be denied any longer and he shoots to the surface, coughing and gagging, hanging on the lip of the tub as his vision pulses in and out in waves. This tub-therapy thing is his go-to but apparently isn’t working tonight. He stares at the tile floor for a minute more, waiting for his gasping to stop and vision to clear, then sits forward and twists the water-release. The water gurgles quietly as he steps out, grabs the giant purple towel waiting for him, folds himself inside. Water drips down his forehead, temples, neck from his wet hair; collects under him in a little puddle; and he shivers, just watching as the tub swiftly empties itself. The drain gives a final cough and it’s like he never took the marathon bath. If it weren’t for the puddle and the disturbing levels of pruning, he wouldn’t know.

He drifts out to the apartment, passes his cell phone tossed from his pocket onto the bed as he stripped, screen dark and power off. Passes his laptop in his bookcase, gives it a sideeye look of almost superstitious fear. Stands, staring, again, turns in a circle, looking at everything and nothing.

Climbs into bed, still wrapped in the towel, black hair soaking into his pillow. Pulls himself on his side into a tight little ball.

Snags his iPod from his bedside, finds Metallica, dials to their nastiest, jackhammerest, most thought-obliterating album he can.

Cranks it up.

Shuts his eyes.

*

“Do you want to come over tonight?” Mako asks Rin, very neutrally, in the car as they head away from the coffee shop.

Rin is uncharacteristically quiet. He was able to get his tears under control once they were in and buckled, but he’s not in any rush to replace them with his patented slew of words.

…it was the look on their faces more than anything as he and Makoto stood to leave, he thinks. The shock and sorta-stupidity and dismay, especially on lovely little black-haired dude ( _Haru…_ ), no matter how good they both were at keeping their faces under wraps. Like this grand exit was the absolute last thing they expected (and _hoped for_ ) out of their meeting.

“…what did you think about that?” he asks Mako, hesitantly. The big man is fully and conscientiously focused on the road, hands at ten and two until he has to shift, eyes correctly forward. Oh so very Mako.

“I think you can tell by how fast I got us out of there what I thought, Rin.” Tight, angry voice; matches his ten-and-two hands, tight on the wheel. He doesn’t say more.

“Well… What do you think they wanted out of that meeting?” he tries instead. He isn’t sure if that will be any better, but he can’t seem to stop chip chip chipping away at this careful, composed exterior that he’s guessing is hiding a roiling burning vat of … of _something_ Rin is committed to rooting out.

Bingo – he gets a hot green look shot his way – and here comes “two-hand”, off the wheel to point at him accusingly. “Oh give me a break, honey! You know as well as I do! It was one big setup all along, one of those ‘free resort weekends’ you get then they file you into a conference room and try to sell you the timeshare. What a joke and we’re the idiots who fell for it.”

Rin blinks at him, surprised at the fury in his voice and hurt coiling underneath. “Uh, havin’ trouble following your brilliant metaphors, dear.”

Mako sighs gustily and shifts so hard as they leave a light, Rin feels like he’s riding a mechanical bull. “This whole damn thing was a big setup to get us in with ‘Sugar Daddy’ Yamazaki-san. Offering us money, to put us through school, pay our rent. Ooh, we lose our places? Well just look, we can move into his _penthouse_ with him! Can you believe that?”

Rin, who fully valued the privacy and independence of his little flat and his life in general, could honestly think of worse things. “Granted, it was a little _forward_ of the guy –”

“’Forward’?? He was basically asking us to be his sex-toys!” Hard, disgusted scoff. “I bet he’s got all our stuff bookmarked. I’ll bet you 10,000 yen. And it’s just our luck, isn’t it, that it would go down this way.” He suddenly drops off completely and devotes himself to driving, and Rin eventually looks over curiously to see him struggling hard not to cry. He leans over, lays his head on the big shoulder.

He’s soon able to keep going. “…that we would run into these two totally unlikely guys from out of nowhere, that were using _us_ as muses, these guys that could be our _friends,_ that … that it seemed like we’ve – we’ve known forever, and that got us together with such a beautiful gesture. Cared about us.”

Makoto reaches down to shift again, jostling Rin’s head off his shoulder. Rin doesn’t even make a show of complaining and Mako doesn’t even notice it happened; he’s too wrapped-up in his anger and misery.

“…and all that? Total fucking front. Buying our trust so we could slide right into their bed.”

He’s faces forward, grimly driving, and he’s silent for about five minutes when Rin realizes that’s all he’s getting. But it’s plenty. And he understands, even if he doesn’t really agree.

Rin turns to face-front too. He lets his mind drift over the events of the past hour or so, of the words said, the new assaults on his senses. Drawing the image of Sousuke in his mind’s eye, the curl of smile and squint to his unusual eyes as he reached out for the fist-bump, as he said his name. Remembering the way Haru felt pressed tightly against him, the way he could pick up the unmistakable undertone of chlorine hiding beneath some sort of body wash on his pale neck, the thrill that sent through him – _this guy is a swimmer, too! Holy SHIT!_

Tracing through the words, their banter at the front-end, so very easy all-together like they’d all gone to the same grade-school, the same _kindergarten,_ practically. His teasing of Sousuke and getting teased right back; his weird desire to put some red in Haru’s cheeks as much as he was positive was in his own. Going right to given names, all sounding good in each other’s mouths.

…that passionate plea the quiet little man made to him and Mako. Passionate, and yes, Mako was right – beautiful. So he and Mako were flowers doomed to wither in the airless hellhole of porn life, huh? He couldn’t have thought it better himself. The appeal sat echoing somewhere in the center of him, maybe in his heart itself, he didn’t know; he just knew the words felt recorded in his memory and he could _feel_ them changing him.

Even Sousuke’s offer at the end. He thinks he gets it, what the big guy was trying to do. That it maybe was his way of helping.

But he has no idea how to express that to Makoto.

“You never answered me, Rin.” He’s breaking the silence, finally, his voice oddly distant and very not-Makoto. “Should we head to my place? We can say ‘screw it all’ and get a pizza.”

He’s sure Mako would probably love that – he’s a big believer in eating his troubles away (yet … keeps his boyish figure, the prick). He’s just really not sure he would … just, not tonight. He suddenly remembers the latest _Brohicans_ release in his bag beside him; he isn’t sure why he brought it, he guesses he was going to ask the guys to sign it, or something, should things go well, the thought of which is almost too sad to think. He hasn’t had a chance to read it yet and is seized with the compulsion to snuggle in bed, read it like evidence. To go through it for clues to their situation, to these guys’ possible intentions.

“Uh…you know, Mako, thanks for the invite, but not tonight. Could you just drop me at my place?”

Makoto looks at him strangely but doesn’t comment. Tells him he loves him when he drops him off, and kisses him, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

***

UGH. This may be my 2nd shortest chap yet (after my intro one) b/c you know why? ANGST. Really not good at it/makes me sad – it sorta feels like writing in a foreign language ;). But once the sad is here, it definitely can’t be waved away quickly (unless we’re all game-show hosts living on a tropical island where antidepressants and Dove bars fall from the palm trees). So pls hold on with me, brighter times are bound to be ahead :)

[A possible candidate painting](http://www.hockneypictures.com/works_paintings_70_18.php) for Haru’s bathroom ceiling. Taking a bath, looking at a pool – gold, right?


	21. Depression and hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long 'un (for me anyway!) and DAMN chatty to the point of absurdity, but hope you enjoy anyway. Think we've hit the end of Act (Three? Six? 17? ;)). Humbled by your feedback as always - THANK YOU <3

Haru’s had one song on repeat for the last … oh … 24 hours.

36?

48?

He doesn’t fucking know. He doesn’t fucking care. The Great Coffee Shop Fuckup was … some unknown number of days ago. He hasn’t bothered to leave his apartment. Why would he – he has everything he needs right here. Enough mackerel, rice to survive plenty-long on; what’d they say, it takes three _minutes_ to die without air, three _days_ without water (for most people, anyway, who aren’t Haru), and three _weeks_ without food? Well, he has provisions enough to avoid death by starvation, anyway.

He idly tunes back into the bluesy, rootsy shuffle pouring out of his iPod, pouring that same song again he’s been unable to steer away from since practically the moment he woke up, days ago (…?), still-damp and cold and sore with Metallica careening through his head. It’s just – perfect. Almost TOO perfect really, like Jack White was doing some creepy-weird surveillance of their ridiculous situation and sat smirking – sadly, maybe, in sympathy – as he furiously laid the lyrics down in longhand.

 _I want love_ _To roll me over slowly Stick a knife inside me, And twist it all around_

…yep. Yes, that’s about what things feel like about now.

_I want love to Grab my fingers gently Slam them in a doorway Put my face into the ground_

DAMN right.

_I want love to Change my friends to enemies, Change my friends to enemies And show me how it's all my fault_

…because that’s _it,_ isn’t it? He’s been over this. He’s sorta done nothing BUT for the past unknown number of days (hey, with the sheers stubbornly down, time is blurred into “days” and “nights”, featureless). And he thinks he has a fairly good grasp on logic – on the ability to take a problem, pick it apart, not let pain-in-the-ass emotions get _too_ far in the way.

And that’s all he can figure. Because he’s just one. Big. Walking. Fuck-up.

Why? _Why_ is it they watched two of the loveliest men he’s ever laid eyes on – and we’re talking lovely _souls,_ here, not just pieces of ass or pretty faces – why did they sweep out of that coffee shop and out of sight? Oh, no, it WASN’T Sou and his absolute shit-timing, no.

It was fucking Nanase Haruka.

Nanase Haruka, who has never had the first clue how to be with people … how to _really_ be, with the comfort and ease other people summon up like it’s fucking breathing. Nanase Haruka, who’s selfish and self-centered, who couldn’t figure out the mechanics of being THERE for someone else if you gave him an illustrated manual. Nanase Haruka, who merrily merrily merrily merrily drifts along, life is but a fucking DREAM, not a shred of initiative to jump up and change things that matter … even when they’re getting up and walking away, out of his life.

Nanase Haruka, who doesn’t know _the first thing_ about how to love.

_I want love Forget that you offended me, Or how you have defended me When everybody tore me down_

…because that’s the other half of this story, isn’t it? Sousuke. This unbelievable man who is a walking Zen koan, he’s a tree falling in the forest that doesn’t make a sound, he’s one hand fucking clapping. He’s been _after_ Haru from day one, a one-man “life-improvement service,” and Haru hates that. _Hates_ that. By everything that makes any sense, this perfect dude should have tossed Haru in the lost-cause bin almost from the start. And Haru should’ve been totally content with that.

So why the hell didn’t he?? Why does he glance over sometimes when they’re both hard at work, and Haru has two pens absently sticking from the corners of his mouth like a mini-walrus, and Sou has this

_ache_

in his eyes that Haru can’t explain?

Why did he seem so stupefied when Haru beat him in that first race? That second? Why did his face promise “homicide” when Haru trash-talked his parents to him then?

…why, when he sweet-talked Haru onto the master-suite balcony, then leaned up close, so close behind against the Lucite railing, one arm wrapped casually around his abdomen while he pointed out landmarks twinkling below them with the other … why did his voice sound so damn _happy?_

And the stars glowing down on him from the ceiling seem so mocking, all the constellations screaming LOVE at him over and over and over, like even _they_ are sick and tired of how dense he is. Like big-ticket emotions like LOVE shouldn’t be wasted on those who can’t understand them. Appreciate them. Don’t deserve them.

He sits up, fast, against his pillows. Uses the heels of his hands to angrily obliterate the tracks of his tears from his cheeks. The pain in his chest that has stayed at bay for a while in the mantra-like monotony of _that same song –_ that has left his tub bone-dry, sketchbook closed, phone off – rises again, fast. Scary. Suffocating. He darts to the side and pulls his laptop to him, unlocks it with shaky fingers. Doesn’t even spare the word processing program a second look.

Pulls up Skype.

He’s sending off a call to Kisume before he has a clue to check the time – and is vaguely amazed to see that it’s 4AM. Midafternoon in Manhattan, then; he’s suddenly, deeply relieved in the depths of his unmoored flailing freak-out, at least he’s not dragging yet _another_ poor soul down with him through a call to them in the middle of the night. Not that Kisume has to answer him. Likely won’t, actually. Why the fuck would he be around his laptop when he could be anywhere, doing anything in that city, with his _friends –_

 _–_ when Haru’s treated him like such shit –

 _–_ and he’s answering, his video-window flicking on, like magic, like the wish Haru didn’t know he wanted.

His lovely, lovely face is getting hurriedly into frame, as he snugs his headset down, and his big beautiful mouth is moving animatedly. It takes Haru way too long slack-jaw staring at him before his brain catches up and he pops his earbuds out, paws his headset on, plugs it in.

“ _–_ my GOD! I can’t believe it, Haru!! It is so fucking good to see you!”

Haru just has to blink at him for a bit, his eyes full of _smile_ and his ears full of _laughter_ and his heart just full. It’s so fucking corny. And it’s 100% real.

He finally can manage a smile back – it’s like a tiny seedling compared to the redwood tree of Kisu’s, but it’s something, and Kisume reacts like Haru just kissed the screen. “It’s good to see you, too, Kisume.” He stops, waiting until he can speak safely without fear of crying, thinks fuck it, he could wait forever given the unexpected rush of emotion flowing over him. “I’m … I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch. That’s really shitty of me,” and his voice sorta dwindles away. But he thinks Kisume hears.

He leans in, look of pure happiness replaced instantly by concern. “Haru? Are you okay? Are you crying? And you don’t look so hot –”

Haru scoffs; it hurts his throat. “Oh, gee, _thanks._ ” Trying for funny, missing.

“Ah, sweetie, you know what I mean! You know you’re a goddamn god among men,” eye-waggle, salacious little mouth click. He’s trying so hard to cheer him up … and despite himself, his fathoms-deep pool of stupid misery he’s drowning in here, Haru feels it working. “But I can tell through this damn camera. You look like you’ve gone a week without sleep, like you haven’t been eating, like you’re _sick._ What the fuck’s going on over there??”

A pause as his face gets dark and grim and very NOT-Kisumi. “What the _fuck_ did that guy do to you??”

Haru’s smiling again despite himself, and it hurts, because he DID do something to Haru alright … just not what Kisume thinks. And as he watches the college senior, lovely face warring between aggro-fury and an almost desperate fondness, he also gets that his thing with Sou hasn’t diminished how he feels for Kisume, or even changed it. Still the same goofy intimate friendly fond exasperated amused … attracted … all of it.

And he just gives up.

“You, my dear, are so sweet,” he smiles through his camera, tilting his head a bit, quickly wiping both eyes again. “And they say chivalry’s dead. HA!”

Kisume _pffft_ s. “Yeah. Just call me Sir, uh, Galahad. The Chaste.”

Haru’s turn to _pffft …_ actually, he’s so incredulous it’s more of a full-on raspberry. Kisume, in true Kisume style, doesn’t look in the least offended. “But _seriously,_ Haru. This, this _romance author,_ he do anything to you, anything, and I will PERSONALLY make the fucker pay.”

“Caveman.” Then he gives poor Kisume a break. “No, actually, I’m just being an asshole. Sorry. No, my writing partner hasn’t done a thing to hurt me.” He pauses, feels his id shove his inner editor out a window in an all-too familiar sensation. “Except that one time when he had the electric nipple-clamps jacked up a few notches too high and I had the most _interesting_ bruises the next day.”

He’s going to hell, he’s already accepted this, but he could die from sheer amusement at the look of stupefied horror (intermingled with unmistakable slack-jawed arousal) on the poor guy’s face. But he has a shred of soul left and DOESN’T laugh. Waits for Kisume, for his cue.

“…so – you aren’t joking, are you? You’re fucking _sleeping with him,_ aren’t you?”

Haru just lies back, smiling, just so fucking relieved he can tell it to someone, anyone, for the first time. Weirdest confessional booth ever, but he guesses he’ll take it … if he can somehow by the skin of his teeth _not hurt this man._

“Yes. Though it’s pretty damn vanilla – no nipple clamps, no pain at all, really.” He keeps his voice so, so gentle, like it’s creeping on tiptoe to check a sleeping baby. “Except … except for the pain you might expect. Which actually isn’t anywhere as bad as you’d think, either.”

He watches Kisume struggle with his reply, and feels bad, and knows he has to let him take the next turn, see where he’ll take this. “He …” Looks down; his lavender eyes may be shining when he comes back up, Haru’s not sure. “He just better be careful with you, not make you do anything you don’t want, treat you gently. He just better.”

Haru’s stealing a page from the b-baller’s playbook before he knows it, reaching out, cupping the side of his lens with a few careful fingers. Watches his eyes widen at the gesture. “See, that just fucking proves it all to me. You coulda called me a slut, hung up on me. I deserve it. Or even just laughed at me. And that’s why I love you.”

Dead-air silence – Skype could’ve dropped their audio, it’s so complete. Kisume’s staring at him, eyes narrowed. “…okay, Haru. What the _fuck._ You on drugs, manic, suicidal? This all some joke? ‘Cause I do NOT appreciate it, OK?”

“I love you. I think I’ve loved you a long time, and was a damn idiot who really has never got love, so something can sit right in front of me and I am totally clueless.” He stops, swallowing; he’s deeply grateful Kisume’s letting him have the floor, he needs the time to somehow say this right and he already knows he can’t trust his mouth. “You’ve been in front of me and there for me and _beautiful_ and I love you. And you’re so fucking far away and I’ve been such a goddamn loner and somehow, in the course of this new project, I slept with my writing partner.” Stops again, goes on almost angrily. “ _Sousuke._ I don’t even fucking know how it happened, or why. First time was pretty much crap, actually.” Kisume opens his mouth in alarm, to question, he’s sure, but he just raises a hand.

“It’s OK. Garden variety lame sex, I’m guessing. He’s sorta not the best with emotions and intimacy, either. It’s a Japanese thing, _American._ ” He feels immeasurably better when Kisu cracks a hesitant smile. Still – miracle of miracles – lets him talk.

“But that’s the funny thing. We’ve been practically living with each other, knocking this thing out, and finally I feel like I know the guy. And he’s a really good guy.” He takes a giant breath. “And I’m pretty sure I love _him_ too.”

And Kisume’s just staring, and he just decides to go for it, to lay this whole ugly emotional mess on the poor guy, because really, he hasn’t done _enough_ damage yet, has he?

“…and it’s a goddamn _disaster,_ things are BEYOND complicated, because you will never meet a person shittier at love in your _life_ than me, Kisume, just fucking epic-fail levels of incompetence at love. Never been in love, don’t know what the fuck to do, don’t deserve it, am just a walking lightning rod that’s gonna get either one or both of you guys hurt bad or killed. I’m already trampling all over your heart and good intentions, right? _God.”_ And he stops, out of words, shaking so hard his jaw is chattering and he has to clamp it shut. Runs a trembling hand through his hair, making it stick up like (apropos) he’s been electrocuted.

…and Kisume is _laughing_ at him. The fucker! Just sorta hopelessly laughing like Haru told the funniest anecdote ever and didn’t just bust his heart wide open to show him the blackness inside. Shaking his head and everything. Haru glare-fumes at him.

“Oh … oh GOD, Haru. Oh, baby.” Then he has to compose himself for a few seconds before he can talk again. “You are SO in the right line of work. When you guys put your thing out please be sure to tell me, OK? I gotta get my hands on a copy.” He smiles into the camera, and his eyes are doing this _thing,_ they’re shining again only this shining is a happy one instead of sad. “Of course you love us. Because _we_ love YOU! I’d probably kill for you, you know, and I bet this – this Sousuke guy would too. We can’t _help_ but love you.”

And some deep, knee-jerk part of him just can’t resist it. “Oh, pull the other one, dude. What kind of masochistic freak would you have to be to love me?”

Now, finally, Kisume just looks annoyed. “Uh, I guess you can call me Mr. S&M then. Seriously, Haru, one of these days you have GOT to let the nice things other people say get through to you! I don’t know what that’s all about and I kinda want to kill whoever did … _that_ to you. But I guess I don’t have any other way to do it but just say again that _I love you_ … so much, for so long. And I would bet a million bucks this writer guy feels the same.” Annoyed is long-gone and he’s wistful instead. “I’m not surprised I have to share you, just wish it wasn’t from so far away.” Smirks. “And then I could scope this guy out properly and make sure he deserves you.”

“Eh, nice try there, pal. Git yer own damn hottie romance novelist.”

“Got one,” Kisu fires back immediately, eyes hot, and Haru swallows. “So … since we’re on anyway…” And pulls his sweater over his head.

*

Gou is so, so glad to get home from work on Monday. It’s not just the usual “glad to get home on Monday and strip off the monkey-suit and heels” feelings, either. She got a text from her bro ( _his_ favorite mode of communication) yesterday seeing if he could drop by tonight for a little bit to return the last release of _Brohicans_ and he’d spring for some take-out dinner. To be honest, it’d been way too long since they’d done that together, just hung out, she way too caught-up in compulsively overdoing it at work (she and Rei, two beans in a fucking edamame pod for sure). He just as bad, porn shoots surpisingly 9-to-5 but definitely having their share of off-hours too – outdoor ones at night, often. They’re missing something without sticking their noses – hell, their whole damn _faces,_ they ARE Matsuokas – in each others’ business, keeping each other on track, watching each others’ backs.

Just like she can’t believe how dumb she’s been – how willfully _blind –_ to not notice her beloved bro’s obvious pain about his job and his life, all this time. It’s like he’s been an alcoholic getting sloppy-drunk under her nose and she’s been setting out new glasses for him. She knew he would prefer to do something _else,_ of course. But being a little dissatisfied with your job was a far cry from weeping about it in public, even if you _were_ Matsuoka Rin.

She’s letting her hair down in her bathroom when she hears his signature knock (rap rap raprap rap, just like the “Toreador Song”) he’s been doing since she dragged him to see a touring production of _Carmen._ He bitched and moaned and told her to find “a REAL date who actually likes opera” but she kept her eyes discreetly on him and the tears were a-flowin’ free even before Intermission. He’s adored it ever since. _Classic_ Rin.

She yanks the door open, beams at him. “Ahhh, big bro!! This is so nice!”

“Hey, Gou,” he smiles down at her … and she can’t put her finger on it, he’s – so _thoughtful,_ somehow. Thoughtful and … determined? Focused? She’s kind of never seen the look in his eyes before. He even looks the part of a guy newly sworn-off bullshit, his (over)long hair skinned back almost severely into a pony at the back of his head, turning his eyes into the unavoidable focus of his unusually serious face. Clothes to match the hair, a lightweight long black trench open over a long, ragged black sweater, pair of midnight skinny jeans, the motorcycle boots she knows he loves. He looks like some kung-fu bad-ass; or maybe a mysterious and still bad-ass art (or philosophy) student.

The two plastic takeout bags emblazoned with bright yellow happy faces sorta ruin the effect, though. And smell fucking _fabulous._

She’s unusually gentle with him as she guides him in, closes up, takes him arm-in-arm to her little dining area in a lovely little windowed alcove. The lights outside seem magical as they twinkle around them.

“So…! You look good, Rin. This whole ‘man-in-black’ thing is really working for you,” she says, no-laugh letting him know she means it, pulling so many cartons and boxes and packages from his bags she wonders how many people he thought were gonna be here tonight? But that’s OK, she’s starving, and he’s saying “’As you wish…’” with a deep bow, and she’s blushing.

They dig in and – oh yeah – he knows her, alright. All her favorites. She coos and sighs and greedily breaks the unspoken rule and eats over half of the sweet-potato sushi rolls, and he just laughs at her and pours them a little more Pinot Grigio.

“Where’s your man tonight anyway? He woulda been welcome! I am so sorry, I should’ve told you that!” She sets her ramen bowl down with a dejected clunk, royally pissed at herself.

“Ah. That. Funny story, actually.” He laces his hands behind his neck and leans back dangerously far, burps. She doesn’t bat an eye. “Makoto’s finishing up a shoot. You won’t believe this title, okay? Alright, you’ve been warned: _Pacific Rimjob.”_

She busts out laughing so fast and hard it’s like someone just punched her in the gut. “Oh come ON Rin. _Rin._ Really??”

“Do I _ever_ lie to you?” he asks plaintively, and she just shakes her head, smiling, because he _doesn’t._

“So,” she coaxes over her wine glass. “We’re here without your man – who is GORGEOUS, by the way. To paraphrase something I said during our group-read at work, that boy’s so hot, he could turn _me_ straight.” He just smirks and twirls his chopsticks in his noodles, around and around, no comment passing his lips … which, she supposes when you “own” something that nice, no comment is needed. “Am I to understand that means we’re, uh, chit-chatting about _Makoto_ tonight?”

“Mmm. In a manner of speaking.” He swallows the ramen and pushes the bowl away, leaning intently to her on his elbows. Takes a big breath. “Okay, Gou. This may be a weird-ass conversation and I hope to get my thoughts out right … God, you don’t know how fast my mind was going all the way over here trying to plan until I said ‘fuck it’ and basically decided to wing this.” He rolls his eyes.

“Okay. Please please please be totally honest: what’s your opinion of Haru and Sousuke?”

She just stares at him over the rim of her wineglass, forgetting to even take the intended swallow, sets it back. “’ _Haru and Sousuke’_? My my, aren’t we chummy all of a sudden!” She waggles her eyebrows in reflexive glee but that, too, dies as she realizes he is totally, deadly, utterly serious. More, he’s … longing? Almost – desperate? Her mouth drops the slightest bit – she knew something was fishy between them all after that ridiculous bullshit he tried to feed them at the diner (and that hot-pants-Makoto was doing a much better job selling). And – key – after he subsequently went AWOL and wouldn’t get back to her … until this dinner invite, actually. She feels her mouth fall further open as she struggles to understand the depths of ReadFree’s illustrious clients’ involvement in … all of this.

She narrows her eyes, points commandingly. “Now look here, bro. You never gave me an explanation about the whole crazy cosplay thing. What in God’s name were you guys doing?”

To her near-shock he goes on like her question – which she thinks is rather fucking major, actually – is absolutely irrelevant. Like he’s _moved on._ “We’re miles past that now, sis – please know that it’s a long story that doesn’t mean a damn. But really – what are they like? Are they okay guys?? Can they be trusted?”

She is still absolutely mystified, which is _frustrating_ ‘cause she thought she could read situations, people, her BROTHER so well and she’s stumbling in the dark. “…I’ve known Sousuke-san longer, of course – God, I think it’s been eight years, now?” She pauses, thinking of the brash, brooding, argumentative, giant dude who paradoxically has this cute rapport with Rei and a weird soft-spot for her, for whatever reason. “I … I like to tease him to his face and otherwise, becaue he’s just so _ridiculous._ ” She feels herself smirking, sees the avid gleam in her brother’s eyes. “He’s just, like, some giant cartoon character, or something. ‘Hulk Smash!!’ Only no, not really. Because he’s abrupt and sorta tactless – he doesn’t sugar-coat, always says what he thinks – but you will probably never meet a more generous or loyal guy. You’re friends with Sousuke, you got him for life.”

She stops, sees the weirdest unnamed look of loss dragging the corners of his mouth down the slightest bit, yet some touch of hope, the slightest flicker of tears in those faraway eyes. She can’t continue, looking at him.

“…and Haru? What do you think about him?” Voice so quiet she hardly recognizes it.

“Haru … Nagisa calls him ‘Haru-chan’ as this old nickname from when they were kids, and Rei still slips into the full ‘Haruka-senpai’. Makes me so curious about their school days together, I swear.” She has a big dumb smile wreathing her face and now Rin … Rin just looks _hungry,_ for whatever she can say, and wondering, and open, and she finds herself rushing on. “That man is a lot like Sousuke in some ways, ‘cause he’s this enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a really ugly Army jacket. I stole that from the Simpsons, I think,” she guffaws. “So he seems all quiet and weird and secretive and weird and stubborn and, oh yeah, weird. But then you actually talk to him, and ah, Rin, he’s sorta fucking _brilliant._ And deep as hell, and funny, brave, and _passionate_ , oh my God. This is a guy who cares about making things right.”

And then she’s getting up, startled at the look on his face; the near-astonishment, scarlet eyes damp and lips parted and the slightest blush, like he’s seeing _something_ beautiful, just out of view. HE is beautiful. She hurries over to sit in the chair next to him, squeezes his knee insistently.

“Okay, spill! What the hell is going on, make you look like that!”

He smiles at her, stray tears escaping to fly down his face, and he lays a hand over hers, squeezes back. “Remember our talk in the diner before we got interrupted by that hottie waiter?” Her turn to roll her eyes despite the gravity of whatever-this-is – her brother will ALWAYS use fine men as mental signposts. “Well, Mako and I … we’ve known for a long time that this life we’re living, this porn thing … it’s not OK. That – that if it doesn’t get us one of the big-ticket STIs, it’ll do something just as bad, make us hard. Ugly.” He _gets_ hard and ugly, for a moment, considering, and she completely understands.

He shudder-sighs. “But hey, we’ve been skipping along this happy fucking river called Denial for so long, nothing was giving us any reason to quit, least of all the money.” Spits this with what seems like venom all out-of-proportion. “That is, until we had coffee with Haru and Sousuke on Friday. And they … told us how worried they were for us, how they’d seen something by us and could just _tell_ from it and from talking with us that we were good guys. That we were too good for porn.” He stops, something in those last words making him fight with his jaw, beat back his tears with an effort that hurts to watch.

“Sousuke even offered us financial help if we want to get out,” he says when he can continue, and her heart is seized by the _new chance_ her beautiful brother (and his boyfriend) have been given, falling completely out of the blue.

“Oh, _Rin!_ Oh, what’s happening?? You guys setting something up with them? Oh, how exciting!”

…and his look – grim determination in his wet eyes, still that despair just-lingering around the lines of his mouth – tells her such a story she almost gasps. This is a face – this is _passion –_ like she’s never seen on her brother. In their entire lives.

“That’s what I’m hoping. And I’m gonna need your help.”

*

The bar is noisy, but that’s no surprise on a Monday night in the nonstop drink-your-work-troubles-away atmosphere of Tokyo. Not that Sousuke was at work today. But he sure has troubles.

And not that he hasn’t _tried_ to work since Friday, since what he’s been calling “His Leap.” His sad fucking attempt to act a little more like Haru, to be unplanned, to not lay everything down in excruciating detail. To do what his heart was saying, to put himself into the plan and help in the way that seemed to make the most sense. And it _did_ make sense, he could be the difference between these two guys successfully escaping versus backsliding their way back into the clutches of some other dirty fuck. Landing themselves right back to where they started. Sorta like addiction, of a different sort. You gotta have an escape route.

And he’s no mind-reader, or even a face-reader. He’s no woman. But he knows without a doubt – he understands cause and effect, he writes fiction – his words erected an instant wall between the two sides of the table, Rin and Makoto getting up and out of their life. End of story. Because of him.

Never, _never_ because of Haru. He swirls his double Scotch-neat, the amber knocking the dim bar backlight into his eyes in a way that takes him still-further from the ambient noise around him. The thought that _Haru,_ owner of those purest intentions spoken so plainly it hurt _him,_ could blame himself for the complete failure? It makes him sick. Renews those weirdly violent fantasies he isn’t particularly proud of, tracking down the Nanases, dropping in on them anonymously, locking the door behind himself…

He’s spent Friday night, Saturday, Sunday, today, getting himself situated hopefully, slipping on his writing sweats, shutting off his Internet, brewing his strongest coffee. Resorting to his noise-cancelling headphones – no music – when the faintest sounds of traffic below reached him enough to remind him just how much a failure his attempts were.

It was Haru. He needed Haru there. He needed his slyness, darkness, wit, his little presence curled up in some anatomically-improbable way on the loveseat in the study or yelling perverted things from the living room. He needed his lovely face, deeply lost in thought or screwed up in frustration or lit up in _Eureka! –_ none of which he seemed to realize he was doing, which somehow made them even more captivating. He needed his lithe little body, worming out of his arms impatiently after giving him a jab or going through some bizarre yoga sequence or leaning back to stretch out the kinks and groan or kicking his ass – again! – in the pool. Pinned beneath him – against the entry wall – the shower tiles – head lolling helplessly.

Sousuke knocks the rest of his drink back, sets the empty glass down slowly, stubbornly willing his erection-in-progress down. He needs _all_ of Haru, he realizes, for the hundredth time this weekend. The boy is his muse, as much as their two ill-fated pornstars are. More. Because he knows him, probably too well, and realizes his work has gone sour without him. Now that he realizes what he was missing.

He sighs, and the sound is so unexpectedly gusty and sad he’s almost embarrassed. Eases his cell out of his back jeans pocket and leans on his elbow on the bar, calling up his texting program, adding another to a growing list – unanswered – since Friday. _Haru. Me again. Sorry to keep doing this, and the calls too. And I mean it, really get why you need the space. I would too, OK? But starting to worry here. Pls just send something back, however short, lemme know you’re alive. I don’t hear from you soon I’m coming by. S._

He dials over to his missed calls – nothing from Haru – and in a weirdly aroused-depressed-worried mood catches the eye of the hottie-chick bartender, who (to his weirdly aroused-depressed-worried amusement) gives him a very thorough once over and big smile before hurrying to find his rare Scotch on the shelf.

“I see you still slay ‘em, doesn’t matter WHAT gender,” a grinning voice says behind him.

He spins on his stool so fast the room keeps spinning a little after he stops (he thinks…). Then he’s blinking up at a familiar face. He can hardly believe it.

“Mikoshiba!! Holy _shit!”_

“Heyyy, Yamazaki!” The big redhead leans in and without the slightest self-consciousness grabs him in a giant hug as he blinks stupidly on his barstool, heartily whacking his back in his happiness yet still taking care around his shoulder. Sousuke is absurdly touched by his care and feels almost like he might cry – then wonders if the drink he just ordered was such a great idea.

Mikoshiba releases him and shoots him his familiar, slightly unhinged and totally delighted grin. “My God, man! I can’t even remember how long it’s been since the last time we hooked up. Hmm, a year, maybe?”

“Yep. The karaoke bar debacle,” he smiles back, nodding at the bartender as she sets his fresh glass down and shamelessly ogles not _one_ but TWO fine men before her. He doesn’t bother to tell her she could actually have a shot with this one. Let Mikoshiba catch his own damn … “prey,” or whatever.

“Oh GOD. That.” He gives Sousuke a dark look edged with amusement and slides onto the free stool next to him, setting his beer on the bar. “God. I think I was trying to do the complete works of Lady Gaga plus dance moves when you finally pulled the plug. Thanks, by the way.”

Sousuke’s grinning and shaking his head, his black mood gently pulling away, and he’s grateful. Then he’s blurting it out. “I’m so glad you showed up. Was getting pretty lost in my thoughts.”

“Ha!! Thinking about switching teams, buddy? Whoa! Eh, wait for something _special,_ then, right?” he says, carefully so the bartender can’t hear them, and Sousuke smiles at his weirdly-placed tact. “No, sorry, what’s such a big deal you’re fucking mulling it over _alone_ on a Monday at the bar? Bad sign. You working on a new thing now? Giving you trouble? Or is it some dude? You want me to kick his ass for ya?” He laughs, this crazy thing Sousuke has always sort of envied, wished he could do himself.

“Well … that’s a funny story. It’s – it’s both.” Mikoshiba’s wolf-whistling but Sousuke’s pressing on in the sudden and unexplainable need to share. “So I’m co-writing something with this other guy on the ReadFree roster who’s never written with anyone before … like me.” He pauses; the big loud redhead’s uncharacteristically quiet, leaning on one elbow, sipping slowly from his beer, watching him carefully with those uncanny amber eyes. “It’s cool. I’m gonna have to share it with you, maybe violate our no-share policy; I made you into a character,” he finds himself saying, blurting really. The other’s eyes widen in clear delight. “He’s cool, don’t worry! He’s this tough – _straight –_ pioneer dude.”

 _NOW_ Mikoshiba’s laughing. “Straight?? Oh God, doesn’t that break your contract, or something?” His eyes dance as he leans in conspiratorially. “You haven’t said anything about this dude-trouble. Is it the other writer?”

…and Sousuke’s mortified to feel himself _blushing._ He thinks he can get away with it between the dimness of the bar and the booze. “Yeah. We … we started out pretty rough; he’s sorta my polar-opposite, actually.” Pauses, thinking. “Never went to college, real underachiever type all-around. _Weird._ One of those quirky hipster types who hangs out in Shinjuku. Hates money. Real mouthy, always making snarky remarks. We’ve done nothing but fight.”

Mikoshiba’s beside himself, head back, laughing again like he’s hearing the best news of his year. “Yamazaki, tell me RIGHT NOW why you haven’t murdered this kid yet. Or –” He grabs Sousuke’s arm melodramatically. “Maybe that’s the trouble, you _did_ kill him and need to hide the body?”

Sousuke brushes his hand off in mock-offense. “Nah, we’re good. No … we’ve been spending a lot of time together on this thing. All day, every day, pretty much. I’ve gotten to know him.” He stares into his glass and is thankful again for the redhead’s silence; he always was way better at handling people. “First time I had him to the apartment I challenged him to a race.”

“He swims? What’s his stroke?” Mikoshiba asks, eyes glinting, coach-instincts impossible to shut off even at the bar.

“Oh, he swims, alright. This kid _kicked my ass,_ 50m, freestyle. Twice.” His old college friend’s jaw’s hanging. “… _and_ in every subsequent attempt since.”

“Wait … what does this dude look like?” Suspicious, now. “Because anyone who would slam Yamazaki Sousuke into the wall’s gotta have other, uh, _attributes_ or else you really WOULD’VE killed him.”

“Fucker,” Sousuke grumbles, while his friend just smirks. “Wish I had a pic I could show you but … I think in all this we haven’t taken any.” He’s struck by a sudden and irrational sadness – he’d have more opportunities to get a photo of Haru, right? Maybe even when he’s sleeping… maybe even in the act…

He clears his throat heavily and ignores the look that knows too much next to him. “Plus he abhors social media so I can’t even show you his damn Facebook page. Shame, really, ‘cause I can’t do the guy justice. Okay.” He swivels away to face the room, and Mikoshiba joins him curiously; he holds his hands up like some weird conductor or Geppetto or something.

“Picture this. He’s standing in front of us. Little guy. Maybe reaches my shoulders…?” Sousuke in fact has crystal-clear awareness of exactly where Haru comes-up against his chest but blurs his recollection for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. “Black hair, black-black, darker than mine.”

“Long or short?” Mikoshiba interrupts, smiling.

“Longish, crazy, perpetual bedhead, LONG in front, always getting in his eyes. Puts it up in a chopstick sometimes. Now stop interrupting,” he deadpans, and the other man is laughing delightedly, _knowingly._

Shit.

Ah well. In for a penny and a pound, or whatever that old saying is?

“…So the hair in his eyes is a shame because he has these EYES. Sorta like your eyes only the opposite, like, ‘I have never seen these before,’ and while yours are like some fucked up jungle creature his are…” Knocks back the rest of his Scotch to raised eyebrows. “His are like something you’d see on a merman. Or a mermaid. Either one. Biggest eyes you’ve ever seen not in a damn anime, deepest blue you’ve ever seen. Gorgeous.

“Little face. Delicate. Totally not ‘manly.’ Little nose, tiniest pink mouth. Perfect.” He swallows, feels the heat spread from the Scotch and his own fucking ridiculous words. MIkoshiba’s still silent, the weirdest expression on his face like he’s a very overgrown kid listening to fairy tales at storytime.

“He’s so petite but it’s all misleading – ‘cause he’s _strong._ Not that he’s built. But – tough. Like a Jet Li or Jackie Chan or something. Pale, all over. Pale and perfect.” Now he’s full-on _flushing_ and Mikoshiba looks wistful, or maybe a little sad. “It’s hilarious too. He has the most fucked-up sense of style, right? Every time I see him I’m cringing, like ‘O GOD what new travesty are you gonna be covering that body with today?’” And he slams his mouth shut, suddenly feeling like this whole “sharing” thing was a vast, stupid mistake.

But Mikoshiba doesn’t make a move to tease him. “…so how long have you known you love him?” he asks, so quietly Sousuke almost has to do a double-take that it’s MIKOSHIBA next to him and, not, some woman. “And what happened? Why are you here getting drunk instead of with him, writing or better yet screwing?”

He smirks, feeling the weirdest pricks of wet at the corners of his eyes but turning back from the Dream Haru before them to resume their face-to-face conversation-turned-confession. “Ahhh. Dunno. Maybe it was when he fucking beat me in that race. Does that make me sound like a masochist?” The redhead – his “Stephen” – just laughs at him, shaking his head. “…maybe when we started writing, realized just how well we clicked together, even with our differences. Which is so bizarre. Maybe –” He gets a flash in his mind’s eye, of a darkened room and a quiet, low voice, soft green glow above them. “Maybe it was the night I found him in the men’s room of this club we were at after beating off this _huge_ asshole rapist. Australian.” Mikoshiba looks half-alarmed, half-impressed. “Ended up at his tiny apartment and … didn’t even do anything. We’d already had plenty of sex. But that was the first night we just … laid in his bed and talked.”

He wipes his hot face with both hands, turns back to face his old friend, resting his chin in one palm. “The guy has glow in the dark _stars_ on his ceiling, you believe that?”

NOW the look is full-alarmed. “Sousuke, you aren’t doing a _minor,_ are you??”

And Sousuke’s laughing at his look, not caring that he’s an asshole, somehow feeling better. “Jesus, dude, no. I got my kinks but I’m no _moron._ He’s thirty.”

“So what the fuck, man?? This guy – well, he sounds like some kind of backwards-land DREAM guy for you, man? Come on, what happened?”

Sousuke doesn’t answer him. For a good long while, maybe five minutes … long enough for the little firecracker bartender to slide over, ogle them freely, get them both another (even though his thinking-brain knows he’s way over his line). “It’s way too complicated. And stupid. I fucked up and he thinks it’s _his_ fault. But I’ve been really fucking him over this whole time. Stringing him along. Kid doesn’t know how to be with somebody, never been with anyone his whole fucking life. I was his first.” Mikoshiba’s eyes practically fall out and the fresh bottle hovers on the way to his mouth, comes back down to the bar with a little slam lost in the general din.

“You gotta _man up,_ guy. Go get this dude. Perfect guy like this, writer, you click, you mesh, he _swims?_ I’m not even mentioning the fantasy bit about you popping his cherry ‘cause that’s just … yeah. Why aren’t you at his place _right now_ screwing the shit out of him??”

They stare at each other, one beat, two, then dissolve into stupid drunk giggles, bracing their heads against each other’s stupid drunk shoulders, Sei giddy-slamming his back. It’s nice in the dark familiar embrace-like place, with his old friend, their giggles spinning down to wheezes as Sei just keeps saying “Oh man – oh man” into his neck.

Sousuke finally pulls his swimming head up (too bright the room’s too bright) and Sei smiles sortof rakishly at him. “…So??” he demands. Pushy fuck.

“Ya know, Sei…” He gets lost poking the chest in front of him for emphasis. “You – are – RIGHT.”

*

Kisume must be magic.

Or … honesty must be magic, making wayyy overdue confessions, painful as they are and jerky as they make Haru (rightly) out to be. Even as it was undeniably exhilerating. And fucking _embarrassing._ Or, hell, maybe it was partly just good ol’ sexual healing. Regardless, he can’t argue with results.

Bath? Check.

Open window? Check.

Clean clothes/underwear? Check AND check.

He’s even thinking he could turn on his cell later, see what embarrassment he faces from his teen-style vanishing act. This most certainly was NOT supposed to be a rest weekend; he and Sousuke had planned to spend it ensconced, making good progress as they’d already shifted the plot out of Rob and Michael’s love bungalow and into a whole new setting, new challenges and fears and threats aimed at ripping their fragile thing apart. Of course, that plan was a shambles and he’d made _negative_ progress, on his end; he has no idea what Sousuke’s been up to, if he’s done anything without him. If he’s furious at him.

 _Worried_ about him…?

He incessantly slurps a neverending giant mug of ginger tea, trying to soothe the fluttering in his stomach, as he lies back in bed with his laptop.

Brainstorming-ahead in the _Brohicans_ outline? Check – just because he can’t write until he screws up his courage enough to connect with Sousuke, doesn’t mean he can’t ease back into his prior Zen headspace, bit by tiny bit, by dunking his head in their fantasy world and looking around.

And – if a little bit works – to try a little more …

His sneak-up-on-his-brain strategy is so unexpectedly effective, he’s hours in and totally engrossed, slipped so far-down the bed he’s off the pillows entirely. He squints at the screen, mutters, turns to sip more tea –

And almost obliterates his laptop by dumping his mug on the keyboard, jumping as a rap on the door fills his entire studio. He’s gotten so used to the Metallica and the Jack White and the thick silence and the unreal unimportant traffic sounds outside, a noise _in his apartment,_ that _actually matters_ and is demanding something of him … he feels like Rip Van Winkle, shaken awake after sleeping for years.

He’s so tempted to play dead, lie still, hold his breath, but the rap comes again, and he suddenly knows, _knows_ it’s Sou, here to read him the riot act. He’s filled with guilt and the totally foreign need to _see another human_ and tosses the laptop, sets the tea aside and swings out of bed. Hurries to the door, smile forming through the tangled mess of the past few days, runs a hand absently through his hair.

Undoes his locks, calling “Sousuke! Guess what, I’m not –”

Opens the door; lets out “…dead” in a tiny voice.

As Tachibana Makoto stands waiting on his doorstep.

***

Ohohoho!

I OWE YOU ALL BROWNIES AND COOKIES AND MEDALS for getting through all that … that _talking_ and _feeling_ and _profanity_ and damn _self-pitying!_ Sucker may have worked better in chunks but I maintain mega-feels like to clump together. Like magnets. I also giggled at myself a lot in my shameless turning of ALL my damn characters into “chicks.” Except Gou, maybe. She’s pretty tough ;PPP

THANK YOU to the lovely and talented [rosaveritas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rosaveritas/pseuds/rosaveritas) for opining that [Love Interruption](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iErNRBTPbEc), aka Haru’s OCD song of choice, is basically the ideal SouHaru tune.

THANK YOU to the equally lovely and talented [zankyounofuckyou](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zankyounofuckyou/pseuds/zankyounofuckyou) for the priceless _Pacific Rimjob_ title idea … I think I’m STILL laughing.


	22. EVERYONE could use a little healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, we have ourselves a bit of a Moment here, I think - MakoHaru Engines are GO (???) and I do believe some OT4 shit is FINALLY about to go down. After about 100 years :/ ;)
> 
> ...best readers on AO3, right here. Thank you all <3

HAPPINESS! I am blown away yet again by another kind and talented soul who took time to draw the lovely Haru in his sexy harem-pants-and-chopstick-updo look – complete with an adorable chibi Sou too! Ahhh, too fun :D. So please take a look at the [sketch](http://maybeillride-changemylife.tumblr.com/post/108239110424/i-am-so-tickled-by-this-darling-sketch-of) by [Irish_Cupcake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Irish_Cupcake/pseuds/Irish_Cupcake) – this chap is for you, Sweets <3

***

The little black-haired man – who has slipped so swiftly and so strangely into the heart of Makoto’s life, while hardly lifting a finger to do so – is blinking mutely before him in the open doorway. He’s the personification of “seen a ghost” … frozen in place with one hand holding the door wide, other wilting at his side, staring unabashedly up at Mako’s face like a kid who’s gonna get scolded by his mom pretty damn quick for being rude.

And he’s telegraphing KID to Makoto as he pauses on the threshold, in a weird bubble of time where he is in abso…lutely NO rush to move, to speak, to enter, to change anything. Content instead just to wait and let another one of those unexplained “photographic moments” rush into him, imprinting his corneas and on into his brain with the sight of a very caught-off-guard Nanase Haruka as … shocked kid.

He’s in a giant t-shirt that only magnifies the effect (swimming in it really), and Mako is weirdly touched to recognize the bizarre and oddly cute face of Stoplight Lockjaw. He’d know the cartoon fish anywhere; he stoically put up with seeing it all over their house when Ran and Ren went through a _Deep Sea Crossing_ phase, having its plushie enthusiastically shoved at him for kisses goodnight, having to do his best trench-dwelling-fish impression when they insisted on playing “deep-sea house.” The sight touches off a pang of nostalgia for the simple perfection of just living at home, never really being alone, knowing what his job was, even if he had no idea how _good_ he had it at the time.

He’s sporting a pair of skintight leggings, slender-yet-muscular legs paused, one in front of the other as he’s caught where he stood. The leggings pop out at Mako, the fabric printed every which way with yellow-and-black police crime-scene tape, _CAUTION CAUTION CAUTION_ screaming at him as he almost busts out in helpless giggles … almost, but doesn’t, like the man in front of him is a deer he came across on a walk and he’s trying desperately not to scare him off.

Bare feet – and in their pose, rear foot up on the ball as he was taking a step, Mako thinks “…dancer.” They aren’t SMALL feet at all, not dainty – but they’re slender, defined by fine tendons, bones; planted so solidly it looks like he could stand there all night if needed.

And up, up, up to his head, his wild sweep of thick, glossy black hair he must’ve hurriedly fixed as he came to answer the door, for whoever he was expecting (…Yamazaki-san…?). His face, his face Makoto believes he could study for hours, for days, weeks, for _ever,_ and somehow never get sick of it. Face he could study while at the same time _having perfect knowledge of all he sees:_ the light arched brows, stuck up in his shock; the giant oceanic eyes (studying HIM with the same intent…??); the slim curve of nose; his pretty mouth shut firmly where most people (Mako included) hang it open like an idiot when they’re surprised.

Makoto smiles – big, _big –_ relief taking him over. He hardly knows what he’s doing here; it’s rudely late, and he wasn’t expected (he tried calling and texting the number Rin gave him multiple times until the lack of response and canned outgoing voicemail announcement made him paranoid he had a fake number). Rin didn’t fill him in on _anything_ ; only was waiting for him at his apartment when Mako sleepwalked through the door after the shoot, and grabbed him with an _intensity_ … he’d never seen before. Mako in a state of stupid mute confusion as Rin seized his shoulders, pinned him with blazing persimmon eyes, commanded “Go. Talk to Haru at his place. NOW.” Walked him into the shower, led him back to his bedroom and into a soft white sweater, his nicest jeans. The feeling of being dressed for a date (being pimped…??) rather than a talk grew in size and volume but he stayed helplessly tongue-tied; then Rin finished with him, ruffled his hair, looked at him appraisingly, and seized him for a hungry kiss.

“…listen to him,” he whispered against Mako’s lips, those _eyes_ holding him as much as the strong hands cupping his face. Then he pressed directions to Haru’s apartment (and Yamazaki’s, with _his_ phone number, if he struck out at his first stop) against Makoto’s chest, and slipped past him quickly, the front door closing quietly behind him.

So Makoto’s here, and he has _not the first fucking clue_ what he’ll say to the unlikely and beautiful man before him, but he’s smiling, smiling in stupid, wonderful relief. Because he’s here too, _Haru’s_ here with him, and somehow in all the insanity that means something is bound to make sense.

He has no idea why that might be, only that it’s true.

“Haru. I – I’m so happy you’re here,” he hears his mouth saying, and his voice isn’t betraying him, _some_ how, coming out smooth and soft and pleasant and not the incoherent screaming or pathetic stammering he inexplicably feels more like doing. And he watches with quiet wonder as the man in front of him comes back to life out of his temporary shock, like he’s Sleeping Beauty after the kiss, and Mako wishes that he had a bucket of ice water to dunk his stupid head. Drown himself, while he’s at it.

“Makoto,” he says quietly, his voice so surprisingly low, why is a little guy like this the owner of such a voice…? Probably the same reason HE’s a giant, at least by Japanese standards, and yet has always considered his voice reedy … whiny, even. Totally unfit for such a big guy. Almost like wherever features are doled out to babies in utero, some middle manager totally fucked it up, got their paperwork confused, switched their larynxes…

…and while he’s lost in this insane and sentimental fantasy, Haru’s saying it again – and God, _God,_ he could just keep saying it and saying it, he’s never heard the three syllables of his name slide out of anyone’s mouth that way – so subtle, soft, but intense, insistent, _commanding._ Like nothing else matters to him right now but connecting with Makoto. Like he isn’t thinking about what to have for a midnight snack or whatever plot point has been giving him trouble in the novel or the sexual fantasy he might’ve interrupted. Like there are only two people in this entire fucking world.

“…Makoto,” Haru says, shifting forward to meet him in the doorway and grab him by both upper arms, squeezing firmly. Pairs his friendly and intimate move with flicking his head up as he comes in close, eyes _radiating joy_ (???) and a smile touching his face that’s tiny but no less lovely for that. “…are you really here?? You can’t be. I must’ve passed out and this is some weirdly detailed dream.”

Mako’s busting into his “real” laugh, the one he’s been doing less and less these days; the one he doesn’t control and can’t really stop when it starts, like a cartoon character trilling “ha ha ha ha!” while his head pops to the side and his eyes crinkle in delight. It feels absolutely wonderful. He can practically sense his pulse dropping as his giggles finally taper, the stress and uncertainty weighing him down as he drove (too fast) to Haru’s evaporating like smoke.

My GOD, Rin may be onto something here…

He can finally get himself under control and he beams down, lifts his hands shyly, cups Haru’s elbows while he grabs Mako’s biceps. “Ah! Well, you know, Haru, that may be. I’m sorry I’m not a more interesting dream.”

Haru snorts, rolls his eyes – so much like Rin. “Says YOU, Tachibana! I’ll be the judge of that.” And he twinkles his eyes up, as if to let Mako know he’s teasing … and also that he’s absolutely serious.

Makoto’s mouth goes dry and he can’t speak for a moment, but he licks his lips and presses on, releasing his hold on the smaller man’s arms (ignoring the teeny voice telling him to hang on for dear life). “Well, before we say anything more I must say how sorry I am for just crashing your place like this, out of the blue – that is so rude of me, especially when you’re working.” He suddenly is seized with guilt and doubt, glimpsing the open laptop glowing on Haru’s bed over his shoulder. Interrupting the man who’s using him as a muse for such a fantastic book – what a sub-idiotic thing to do! His mouth twists into a frown.

But Haru does the weirdest thing, confirming his harsh words – “ _Tsk,_ Makoto! Don’t be such an idiot” – and yet not hurting him. Doing the opposite, actually; making him realize that being so petrified about visiting someone (which he has every right to do!) IS an idiotic thing, especially as he tried his best to text and call to give the author a heads-up. He feels his hard frown loosening into a smile.

“Thanks, Haru; that’s a relief. I would _never_ wanna interrupt your – your process!”

Haru’s twinkling up at him again, amused, like Makoto is a bottomless well of entertainment to him and every word is a new source of those little smiles and sly looks. He steps back, gestures for Mako to come in; and Mako has the sudden urge to play back, all mock-stern; gruffly ask “So I AMUSE you then, do I…?” with his best glower while he sweeps Haru into his arms. Kicks the door shut, lifts the (hopefully) speechlessly-surprised man and slams him against it; leans in and whispers “...let’s see if _this_ amuses you” against his parted lips…

Makoto hurries in, face nuclear, EARS nuclear, suddenly dying of heat in his sweater and struggling to rewind to the nice platonic exchange they were having. He frantically calls up their last moment together, he turning and marching Rin out of the coffee shop in cold fury and near-anguish at the death of such a lovely dream, cruelly reminding himself of the reality of his visit.

Haru meanwhile is either unaware of his struggle, or may simply be giving him space to compose himself, closing the door and heading to his neat little kitchen space. “Please! Make yourself comfy. Sorry I have so few places to sit … there’s the dining table or my bed if that doesn’t weird you out. Your choice.” He’s bustling, putting the kettle on and stretching to get something from a high cabinet, and Makoto beats down his ingrained need to help. He’s in the guy’s house, he needs to let the _host_ fuss a bit and just be OK with it.

“Well, when in doubt, I s’pose I need to go with comfort,” he laughs, shocking himself, and his brain is further horrified when he heads right to the bed. The BED, of this guy he just met and is NOT about to get down with for a shoot, in all likelihood is going to have a serious conversation with, and his body’s just floating to the laptop, putting it aside carefully, climbing up into the far side and getting comfortable in the fabulous cascade of pillows.

Traitor body. _Fucking_ traitor.

Apparently Haru’s a giant Bohemian free-love dude, because he’s just fixing a little tray, and saying “I can fully understand THAT,” so seriously, like Mako just made a particularly smart point about tech stocks or something. The kettle’s squealing and he’s loading two big mugs onto the tray to join his plate of mystery treats and coming over. Setting their cute little tea-service between them and sliding right in next to him, so close Makoto wonders if HE’s the one who’s dreaming now, pulls his long legs up to his chest comfortably. His hair falls into his eyes and before Mako knows it –

–he’s reaching out and brushing it aside for him.

He yanks his fool hand back, scandalized, like it just robbed a bank without his knowledge, stammering “Oh God, how embarrassing, I’m so sorry, Haru! It just looked like that would annoy you, I’m so sorry –”

And Haru does it AGAIN. “Makoto.” Magic – he shuts up instantly, widens his eyes as Haru shifts onto his knees to face him head-on, and he’s close, _so close_ to Mako, he can smell his body wash (something light, fresh) as he looks at him seriously, hands him a steaming mug. Mako looks stupidly down to accept it, sees what looks like hand-painted cats sleeping and stretching and cat-fighting around the rim. Jasmine wafts up to him and he breathes deeply.

“Please don’t worry so much. You really never have to worry around me, okay?”

Makoto suddenly feels like crying. He doesn’t know if it’s those quiet, comforting words (like a verbal hug); if it’s the serious yet kind, gentle expression on Haru’s lovely little face; if it may just be the rich aroma of the tea dancing around his face. He holds the wonderful cat-mug, the heat feeling good on his hands, until he can trust himself to talk.

“…things have been bad for a very long time, Haru. I … I really don’t know how you could possibly know that as much as you do or be able to say it as … as perfectly as you did on Friday.” Haru twitches – almost a flinch – and he pats him on the knee (on those ridiculous leggings). “Your words sort of _did_ something to me, and to Rin. I don’t think anyone’s ever said something like that to me in my life.” He squeezes Haru’s knee in some totally insufficient attempt to communicate just how profound it was to hear his speech that day, completely out of nowhere. “And … and all weekend and today, as I was at work, I couldn’t stop thinking about _A Tale of Two Cities._ So one city is like what Rin and I have been doing the past 18 months.” He pauses. “The things we’ve _had_ to do.”

And he can’t go on, a stack of images and sounds and smells and _feelings_ pushing darkly into his head, and they’re too big and ugly and awful and they twist his mouth shut. And somehow, _somehow,_ he’s sure that Haru knows them all. Knows them all … and doesn’t give a _fuck._ Oh, his dead-serious expression communicates care, alright – like if he could he’d get up, leave the room, catch a train to the studio and set fire to it. All in his perfect ninja-like silence. But his body tells Mako _restraint,_ that he wouldn’t want to make him feel bad, to make him feel any more stupid or helpless or “emasculated” (HA) than he already does.

Makoto is somehow able to move on anyway, his mouth catching up with his thoughts like a roller-coaster car hooking onto the chain. “I had one of those corny ‘see the light’ moments tonight. So I’m at work and the shoot – the shoot is a new low. Not that what I was doing was bad, really – I’ve had some shoots you … really don’t want to know about.” He raises his mug, suddenly, tests the tea; it’s just the right temperature, strong, perfumed, _so good._ He thinks he drinks about half in one mega-swallow.

“So I get there and see that the title is _Pacific Rimjob._ ” Says it fast like ripping off a Band-Aid. Haru’s eyebrows raise but he maintains his seriousness and Mako wants to kiss him, _kiss him_ for it. “Fucking _Pacific Rimjob._ Plot? Yep, me and three other guys, them eating me out relay-style. I’m assuming I was supposed to be a kaija and they were the jaegers.” He laughs jaggedly and without a shred of humor. “Followed by, of course, each of them taking a turn in me.” This gets to Haru – he’s not sure why, but the fine, slim hands resting on Haru’s knees suddenly snap into fists, white on each knuckle, and his face goes _dead._ Face of a gunslinger before pulling his revolver and gutshooting someone he wants to die a particularly painful death.

“That’s a really popular theme at the studio for some reason with me. God knows why. People love seeing me and Rin together, like you said, and people love Rin in drag too. But people really like me getting basically gang-raped.” Suddenly he can’t stop talking, can’t stop oversharing to this poor horrified man, who he only just met days ago. And hearing the absurdity, the sickness, in what he’s saying only underlines what he realized today. “The studio always has to round up the biggest guys they can to get the sizing right. And the last guy was really too big for me, even after … everything. So he’s got me down and … it’s hurting. And then he grabs my hair and gets my head back with one hand, gets my throat in the other hand, mock-strangles me, just being way too rough.” He stares into his mug, sees something shadowy that might be his reflection. “Then he leans in and whispers that I was totally fucking it up, not looking like I was enjoying it enough.”

“…Bastard,” Haru hisses, so low and quiet Mako almost misses it, and he’s still wearing his assassin face, and his eyes gleam with tears. “To hurt Makoto like that.”

Mako leans forward, fast, awkwardly putting his mug on the tray, grabs Haru’s face carefully in his big hands.

“…so that’s when I suddenly had the weirdest experience. I didn’t answer him and I thought about _Tale of Two Cities_ again, and I had the clearest damn vision. So he’s doing whatever to me, and my body’s down in the one city we’ve been living in. But then my mind, my mind is suddenly out of there, it’s in this NEW city you described to us, where I don’t have to do this anymore and neither does Rin, and we can do _anything_ else. I don’t care if I drive a bus – people need bus drivers, right?” He laughs breathlessly, and Haru just waits for him, and he’s still cupping Haru’s face like he can’t stop.

“I suddenly just _got_ that there was this whole other normal world where people don’t have to do this kind of shit, and – and I was so fucking _happy._ It didn’t matter what he was doing, and by that point he and one of the other guys had flipped me over and were just starting to take me at the same time –”

“Makoto!” Haru sounds like he’s choking, like he’s been shutting up this whole time to let Mako say what he needs to, but he just can’t take it anymore. He’s practically _thrumming_ under Mako’s hands.

“No, Haru, that’s the best part!” And he fumbles the tray from between them, just GRABS Haru like he’s been dreaming of doing … since he met him, really. Wraps him up in his arms and pulls him into his chest as they both kneel on the bed, drops his head down to share the end of his story, whisper it near his ear. Now he’s shaking too, with excitement. He hasn’t told anyone yet. “I just GOT that there was absolutely no reason to stay – like, why the fuck had I stayed as long as I did? So as those two bruisers started pushing into me – I braced myself on one of the guys and just _shoved_ myself back and they went flying outta me.”

Haru’s squirming and then he’s leaning back in his arms, under him, to _stare_ at him. “You did NOT.”

“Oh, you better fucking believe it.”

Haru’s covering his mouth with both hands in horrified delight and looks so much like a schoolgirl for a second, Makoto can’t stand it. “PLEASE say they kept the camera going so this masterpiece can be nominated for an Academy Award.”

Makoto’s giggling, and it’s all braying and too-loud and scary-sounding but it’s real and he has to put his forehead on Haru’s so he won’t pass out. It’s warm and blue and comfortable and eventually he can breathe again, and he sighs, “Doubtful, given what I did next.”

Haru pushes him back gently – hands on both shoulders – and his face IS “pride.” “You did, didn’t you.”

And Mako just smiles down at him, feeling like a student who’s graduated coming back to fill his favorite teacher in on all the awesome stuff he’s done. “Yup. Walked right the hell over to the camera, said something to the effect of they could find another punching bag ‘cause they wouldn’t have Shachi to push around any more. Then I might’ve, um. Shoved the camera over.”

“Oh my GOD. I knew you had it in you,” he grins, and pops up to wrap his arms around Makoto’s shoulders, _squeezes_ so hard Mako can’t believe it. He’s got his arms around Haru’s little waist and he’s squeezing back, and Mako feels trickles of damp down his cheeks, and they’re _happy_ tears, and that’s OK.

Then he’s tipping forward into Haru’s soft bed, Haru under him.

He’s tucking his hands under his giant t-shirt, whispering them up his flushed back, half in love at the muscles shifting and alive under his touch.

He’s falling into Haru’s kiss, his tiny mouth deceptive, all restless response and heat and the softest, most helpless-sounding moans, edged with something else –

And he’s filled, every goddamn _inch_ of him, with the instant understanding of the rightness of how this feels, protectively covering Haru like a human shield, like he’s found his place.

And _he’s_ moaning, again and again, Haru, Haru, _Haru_ –

– who’s insistently pushing him off.

“Haru! Oh – God, Haru, please, I’m so sorry –” he’s stuttering as he sits back, head floating somewhere around Haru’s ceiling, heart thundering and cock half-hard and hands fucking shaking. But Haru’s … not edging away, or looking disgusted, or mad – ??

…and he’s confused and proud and happy (?) to see Haru’s clearly shaken too, angry flush painting his face, neck, his breath quick. And he’s the weirdest vision of frustrated all mixed up with elated. “Makoto. Cut that the fuck out, OK? You don’t have to apologize to me.” And Makoto obeys, and he shuts up, gazing stupidly at the man before him.

“We can’t do this.” Haru gets a grim look. “Infidelity makes me SO mad. Makes me wanna chop people’s nuts off, actually. So since we’d have to be the ones doing the nut-chopping on ourselves, we better quit while we’re ahead.”

Makoto stares hard at the little man and wonders how the fuck he can possibly say this without sounding like the biggest lying creep in Japan. He starts so slowly he sounds like a Japanese language student. “Uh … would you … believe me if I said Rin and I are in an open relationship?”

Now Haru just looks bitterly sarcastic. Mako has a feeling he uses this look a lot. “Um, nice one, Makoto. So does Rin use that same line when HE wants to fuck around on YOU?”

Mako’s waving his hands madly in an attempt to obliterate his obviously colossally wrong first explanation. “No, no!! No, not that kind of ‘open relationship,’ uhhh … more like, we both agreed if either of us found _someone_ we, uh, wanted … that we could invite that person to join us both, if they were okay with that.” He’s suddenly mortified at the intimacy and sheer porn-plot ridiculousness of what he’s saying. “…it’s even better that in this case, I think both of us would be inviting you.”

Haru blinks at him, expressionless, and Mako’s jealous; he could find a lot of uses for such a perfect deadpan. His next words are quiet and so confusing Makoto almost does manage that deadpan after all.

“…what about Sousuke?”

“Uh, Sousuke-san?” Makoto asks carefully, not knowing what else to say.

Haru shifts and sits cross-legged, and quickly pushes his hair back from his face, and he looks so small and yet determined that Mako’s chest _pulls._

“He isn’t exactly a sweet-talker,” he starts. “I know he scared you, turned you off us completely. But I think he just wanted you guys to know _if_ it would make the difference between leaving and not, he’d be there for you with whatever you might need.” He scoffs at something, shakes his head. “He did NOT mean to leave you thinking he wanted to buy you. The dumbshit.” His voice is unmistakably affectionate.

“Well…” Mako says slowly. “So, you and Sousuke. You … you’re together?”

Haru’s cheeks pink and Makoto wants to lay his lips all over them to feel their heat. “…Yes. Not for long; we met for this project and neither of us had worked with anyone before.” Chuckles to himself. “Pretty fucking clear why, we’re both such assholes. But I digress.” He twinkles his little smile up at Makoto. “Somehow we hooked up in between fighting and writing and he trying to be my life-coach and me biting his head off.”

“Hmmm.” Makoto feels some deep part of him bleeding at his words – but there’s a bizarre balance to it, he with Rin and Haru with Sousuke, like the world’s most surreal double date. And he _knows_ Rin had a spark with the big scary yet hot-as-hell writer; they’ve hardly talked since then, but his memory is good, and he can judge the new flickering in Rin’s eyes on Friday, the crackle of energy, the teasing that was teasing and something more.

And he isn’t even threatened, because it’s exactly like he told Rin in that diner: he would be just fine if Rin wanted to screw a thousand other guys. As long as it was consensual, safe (of course), and most-importantly FREE.

“…do you think he’d be willing to meet again, the four of us?” he asks Haru finally. Blue eyes pop at his question.

And for the second time that night, there’s a firm rap on Haru’s door.

***

GOMEN.

That is: just ‘cause I CAN stick an open end in here does not mean I SHOULD. But now I find they’re the awesome coward’s way out. Best gimmick ever. Need to jump in the shower or run to the store to buy more donuts b4 they close? Pop a cliffhanger on there. Bam ;P

…So can people feel the (sad shaky hopefully not totally unrealistic) beginnings of the OT4 love tonight? Don’t worry, be honest, I can take it :D. Anybody who was waiting around whistling patiently and feels even slightly hopeful now, AWESOME and THANK YOU.

Haru got little fruit-filled chocolate-covered cookies out for their snack – pegging Makoto’s sweet tooth – but sadly they were distracted from eating. And I really wish his CAUTION-tape leggings were a thing ;)


	23. Happiness is a warm OT4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....after 20-odd chaps of ridiculousness, we've finally arrived at the whole stinking point of this fic: OT4, baby!! Y'all are models of patience.
> 
> ...as are those of you waiting on my replies from last chap (GOMEN). Your comments hit new levels of - at the risk of going all pretentious-jerk - profoundness and sorta soul-touching-soul-ness, which is NOT a word but IS a feeling. You all are beyond-words great  <3

It takes Haru a long time to answer the door. Sousuke leans against the wall, hand on the door, hearing Haru's voice inside – is he telling Sou to wait, he'll be there in a minute? He's just so fucking relieved Haru's home – Haru's safe – and he can wait as long as his little man needs. He closes his eyes against the fast rush of happiness that makes him dizzy.

Well. DizziER.

Then his palm flies into space and his eyes shoot open as the door swings in – and here's Haru –

In that crazy-ass fish shirt he put on the night that piece of shit tried to rape him.

In the nuttiest leggings he's ever seen, and he's fucking LAUGHING, ‘cause if he'd had those on that first night Sousuke woulda used _CAUTION_ and they wouldn't be in this mess.

In the crazy hair flushed cheeks open mouth glittering blues that scream SEX to Sousuke, and he was interrupting some solo activity looks like, and it couldn't be more perfect if Sousuke planned it.

So he smiles down, so hard it hurts, and Haru's able to get out "...Sousuke – !" before he sweeps in, slams the door, hauls him into his arms (feeling no pain) and dumps them both on the bed. He feels bad for basically knocking the wind out of Haru while he just stares down at him like he’s unable to do anything else. But then Haru's able to talk again and putting hands on Sousuke's cheeks, and Sousuke's gulping at the touch like a damn moron.

"Sousuke... You okay? I didn't know you could physically get this drunk," he's frowning up at him, eyes fucking huge. The worry is everywhere in his voice, it's fucking _soaking_ in worry and Sou's so in love, he is fucking DROWNING in love, and he just ATTACKS Haru. Puts desperate lips all over his face, just TAKES his mouth, takes it, it may be Haru's mouth but it's his, his, this beautiful mouth that says so many unbelievable things belongs to HIM.

"Ah, Haru, Haru, Jesus I figured it all out," he's gasping, and why the fuck can't he catch his breath? Haru's panting under him and Sousuke needs to be inside, needs to show him what he means to him, NOW. He somehow finds the hem on that damn shirt, yanks up – hears a rip as he scrabbles it over his head and gets his arms tangled on the other side, and Haru's brick-red and hot and sorta frantic face pleads up at him, and it's about as far from his poker face as Sousuke's ever seen him. And his goddamn heart breaks from too much TOO MUCH and he sinks heavy into him, keeps his arms wrapped tight in the shirt though he isn't trying to leave, hides his face against Haru's hot cheek.

"Seriously, Sou, what the fuck is going on?? Tell me NOW before I freak out," he's demanding, struggling to face Sousuke where he has his face hidden, eyes just as demanding as his voice, and SINCE WHEN did Nanase Haruka demand? When the fuck did he freak out? What was this new development??

"...I ran into an old swim team buddy at the bar," he murmurs into Haru's lips. They're soft – how can a grown-ass man have lips like this? He's tasting and tracing the sugar lips again, and he’s bemused to finally hear Haru’s own "mmm...." sounds coming out of himself and he can't stop tasting his man, how can he, he's ginger and jasmine and ... and sex and nerves and he's shaking, God o God Haru's shaking, and Sou's freight-train ready, he's got his hand slipped between them. Hand's between and somehow he's able to hook the leggings, the jammers he knew would be there, slide them to Haru's knees.

Haru jolts under him – bucks into him like he was dreaming all this time and just jerked awake – and Sou fucking switches ON.

"– I told my buddy about you and he thought I was a total dumbshit," he purrs, popping three fingers in his own mouth – thrilling HARD at the "...what..." look on the gorgeous face – then glee, glee at the shocked "...ohhh!" falling out of him as he makes two fingers disappear. Deep. He arches hard against Sousuke's pinning hand and the sight is so helpless, so hot, Sousuke's pulling out and shoving back in with all four.

"Ahhhh!" he gasps, twisting, sudden tears spilling his cheeks. Sou pushes in and out of him, so fucking weirdly sure Nanase Haruka is some exotic new instrument only he can play, his naked torso popped like it's gonna break. He speeds his hand to a steady pulse and leans in to a perfect ear.

"He asked why the FUCK I wasn't here screwing the shit out of you ‘cause _I love you,_ and fuck if he wasn’t right." Latches onto his white neck like a vampire, sucks a bruise on a moving target as Haru tries to answer.

"... _goddamnit,_ Sou, cut it out!" he gasps. Black eyes glaring death up at him even as Haru's hips jump and twitch around his hand. "I fucking mean it – get OFF," and he's hissing like a damn cat – but he's so quiet, like he doesn't want to wake somebody (?) –

–and then Sou's seeing horror on his little face (???) before he’s flying off Haru, out of him, pinwheeling off the bed.

"What the hell!" Sousuke splutters in shock, on all fours on the floor hanging his head until the room stops spinning. When he can finally look up he sees a big man (???), on the bed and oh so gently helping Haru get dressed again, murmuring softly to him (???). Haru's half-cute-blushing and Sousuke's heart wrenches – but he’s also half-glaring at the guy, at him, at the world and he wants to laugh big at his "signature" look.

Sousuke tries standing and the world's still swimming so he says fuck it and crawls. Sees Haru's eyes widen as he makes it behind the man, who he now sees is Shachi.

MAKOTO.

Fucking Tachibana Makoto, over here at Haru's late, LATE, alone, in a pretty white sweater and dark jeans showing off every curve of the ass he knows so well. Knows practically better than his own.

"Date" clothes.

Date clothes and hiding away in the bathroom while Haru came to the door –

–hair and face screaming SEX.

He hears Haru gasp – commandingly (???) – "Makoto!" and then he's got the big guy's ankle in his left hand and he's _yanking_ him away, off the bed, away from Haru. It works way better than it should, Makoto flying through the air like fucking Clark Kent taking Lois Lane out on a date and clusterfucking it, flying through the air and into Sousuke's arms. He can't believe he's this coordinated this drunk as he rolls them in a classic Wrestling 101 move, gets Makoto under him with his arms forced mercilessly behind him, and instantly Haru's off the bed and behind HIM. Voice like some freaky dead-calm serial killer in his ear, backed up with classic Haru compulsive amusement: "Let Makoto up, Sou, or I will tickle the shit out of _you_. Deal?"

And the pretty spring-green eyes he’s got memorized just stare up at them both, saucers, and Makoto's whispering "Haru-chan..." like it's to himself and he doesn't even really mean to say it.

...the FUCK.

He twists around to try to see Haru, and he sorta hurts his neck, and he doesn't give a shit. "'Haru-chan'? HARU-CHAN? What the _fuck_ , Haru?? What the fuck backwards land is going on here??"

Small hands settle on him with creepy precision, one in his armpit, one just under his floating rib. "You really wanna wet yourself, honey?" And he can still hear the dark smile in there, and despite himself he feels a smirk on _his_ face, too ... and he wants nothing more complicated than to just get up and see that smile for himself. See it, maybe kiss it, even with Tachibana right here watching.

"Fine. Jesus Christ, you interrogate on the side? Didn't know you could be this scary, HARU," he scoffs, letting Makoto go and somehow struggling up to sit against Haru's bed. The big – and, yes, beautiful – man leaps up with absolutely no trouble (the fucker) and crouches in front of Haru, holds his face tentatively but so damn tenderly, like it's made out of the most delicate glass and his only job in this world is protecting it.

Sousuke's white-hot livid. Which is why he's damn confused to be just gaping at them both, at this little ... BUBBLE that has somehow fallen down around them as soon as Makoto touched _his_ man, turned those glowing eyes _into_ him, eyes beaming with concern ... as soon as Haru touched just his fingertips to the big man's knee, so light, just a whisper ... face solemn, sad almost. Sousuke stares and knows he's crap at reading people, but also knows what he's seeing ISN'T normal. This is no simple fuckbuddy situation he can split up in a cleansing wave of aggro, broken nose, bruised kidneys – Sousuke isn't a fan of fighting but all his deepest caveman "kill-rival-throw-mate-over-shoulder" reflexes are GO.

But this isn't that. The way they look at each other...? It's like they've known each other for a thousand years and are having a full conversation without either one opening their mouth. And Sousuke slumps against Haru’s bed, in the sudden silence, the urge to fight wrestling with the need to cry. Fucking Makoto, playing the “sweet boyfriend” role saving Haru from Mr. Big Bad Rapist, huh. Really? Really, Makoto? Funny. ‘Cause if he had the faintest clue about he and Haru – about their _relationship_ (!) – he should understand what he interrupted was no rape. Was no pathetic bastard hell-bent on domination smelling weakness in the air and grinding someone else into the dirt. Was, in fact, the act of a man so … fucking … _whipped,_ so helpless in love, Haru could tell him to do anything, sexual or otherwise – and he’d probably do it.

Maybe seeing would’ve been believing. Maybe one look at that pleading face and torso contorting into brand new yoga poses and Makoto would’ve been far less quick to break it up.

The other part of him is small. Young. Kindergarden, maybe. It sees the new pair before him – the pair he had not the first fucking clue even existed – and wants to find some dark corner and cry. Because there are two people crouching and kneeling there, but this _something_ joining their wordless gaze keeps playing tricks on his eyes, keeps blurring them together into one person somehow. One person connected, Makoto’s hands holding Haru’s face like it’s the most-precious thing in the world (…Sousuke understands), Haru’s fingers brushing Makoto as if to say “…don’t worry, I’m OK and I’m here for you too.”

…and little-Sousuke wants to weep, wondering why that couldn’t be him? Why couldn’t _he_ find that connection, that perfect acceptance, that understanding from another person that’s always eluded him his whole life, made him finally just figure he wasn’t MEANT to get other people, to truly know them? And they weren’t meant to get him?

Cruelest of all: he had been sure, _so sure_ he’d finally found it, in this unlikeliest of odd-couple places. Had left the Jag at the bar, cabbed his stupid wasted ass over busting with his news when clearly he shoulda told the driver to head straight home instead. Because he’d never been so fucking wrong about anything in his whole life.

...and his mouth drops full-open when Haru pulls softly away from Makoto’s big hands, grabs one of them, turns to him and _finds one of his own._

 _Insistently brings them together_ (!!!).

“Uh…Haru?” Makoto says hesitantly. “I fully understand what you said about us, but are you sure _now_ is the best time…?”

Sousuke’s not joining Makoto in his lame little bush-beating party, mystery-conversation with Haru he’s alluding to or no. “You can try to get us to sing ‘Kumbaya’ all you want, dear, but I’ll save you the suspense: no. Fucking. Way.” He violently yanks his hand back to himself, getting a thrill of satisfaction at the hurt and anger mixed-up on Makoto’s criminally-hot pain-in-the-ass face.

Haru sighs. Like he’s the way-too small dad of totally wrong-sized squabbling sons and the next thing he’s gonna say is how they’re driving him to an early grave, or something. He’s even rubbing his forehead with a pained and absent look – trying to will a tension headache away, Sousuke’s a lifelong sufferer and would know it anywhere – and he almost laughs in Makoto’s fool face to see him instantly get what seems to be his Melting-with-Concern™ look. Apparently Makoto has some kind of completely bizarre direct line into all of Haru’s physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, and sexual needs and he lives now to follow along like some butler, ready to dive in with aspirin or a b.j. or a little light manhandling or, you know, other duties as assigned. Damn.

“ _So,_ Makoto. Why do you feel the need to devote your goddamn life to my boyfriend’s every need? Especially considering unless I’ve fucked my math up, it’s gotta be 72 hours at most that you’ve known each other, and we all parted on pretty gnarly terms Friday.” He levels his eyes at the porn actor, going for his best Haru-style poker-face, pouring in as much subtle _danger_ as he can. He’s a tough guy. A MEAN guy. Little fluffy cuddly melty puppy-dog Makoto should know that about him right off the bat. And know where he’s trespassing.

Know what could happen to trespassers.

Haru’s sigh this time is epic – disappointed, sad, _pissed_ in near-equal parts. He takes the faintest moment to marvel again at how well he’s somehow gotten to know Haru in such a short time – especially given the size and strength of the walls protecting him…

“Sousuke –” Haru starts, but Makoto’s completely fired up now and is having none of it, sorta _lunging_ forward to put himself between Haru and Sousuke in a totally unnecessary macho-bullshit move, wagging a finger at him like a pissed-off grade-school teacher.

A _female_ pissed-off grade-school teacher.

“Your BOYFRIEND, huh Sousuke-san? Hmm, how interesting! I guess I misunderstood the, oh, type of relationship you two had when I was in Haru’s bathroom, _horrified,_ listening to you blind-drunk and he struggling and gasping and being _anally raped_ and begging you to get off him –” And Sousuke’s almost sorry – almost – to see the real horror and pain plastered across his face as he breaks off, seemingly meaning to go on with his bullshit story but unable. So the guy has history, issues. Not Sousuke’s problem. The truth is.

“How about _you_ keep your fucking nose out of what you have no FUCKING understanding of, _Twinkle,_ ” Sousuke snarls at him, in his face, murderous.

“And _I_ would _die_ for Haru, so don’t you fucking try to tell me how I can and can’t protect him, Sousuke- _san,_ ” Makoto’s roaring back, just as in his face.

“Die for him? _I’d_ KILL for him!!” Sousuke yells, popping up on his knees and giving Makoto’s broad, perfect chest a furious shove, which the brunette (to his shock – maybe he’s not such a fluffy puppy after all) responds to by bouncing back and socking Sousuke in the jaw.

Hard. Like, seeing stars-flat on his back-hard.

“…HEY!!!” Haru bellows, louder than Sousuke’s ever heard him, louder than anything he’s heard in a long time, actually – and he just blinks dumbly up, Makoto blinks stupidly over, both stopped in their tracks and Haru looking just, flat-out, _furious._ Like he’d just as soon kill them both and start over fresh.

With Rin, probably.

“What the actual fuck are you both doing?? What the fuck alien abduction did you both go through to turn you into macho possessive assholes? Sousuke, you’ve never been like that! Makoto, what happened to what we were talking about, was this ‘open relationship’ thing total bullshit after all?” He stops, seeming so tiny in comparison to both of them, he folded neatly on his knees like a serene (pissed and murderous, but still serene) Buddhist monk, they now facing him and each other in their hugeness with their stupid big unnecessary muscles and testosterone and edge of a fight.

“…and you both know me, I think. You KNOW I hate that shit. If there’s anything I hate in this world it’s grabbiness and greed and people fucking telling other people what to do.” He glares at them. Minutes pass and no one says a word; Sousuke feels inflammatory agents rushing to party in his jaw but he has zero interest in getting up to do a thing about it. Suddenly he’s certain the next thing Haru says is gonna be particularly important, even as he makes no move to touch them or even look at them, keeping his eyes on his knees.

“There’s a reason I got ‘For the Team’ tattooed on my wrist,” he says slowly, and Sousuke starts – how, in all their fucking around, did he somehow overlook that? “…I’ve been alone a long time in my life. In a way it’s really the only constant, ever since I was a kid, especially since my grandma died. It got so that I thought that was how it was for everyone.” His voice is soft – low – sad; such a harsh contrast to the Titan-worthy yell he hit them with just a few minutes ago. He’s such a contradiction: so harsh, but so delicate; so shameless, but so fragile. Sousuke fiercely wishes he could hug him, kiss some breathless happiness into him, but clearly things are different now – and he wants to know what mystery Haru’s sharing.

“Of course, I was totally fucking wrong, right? People are designed to be together, or else we’d live in huts. Alone. But I’ve always been broken, and I didn’t know any better. Until we finally had enough kids in the swim club to do the relay.”

Both he and Makoto are watching him with similar looks of dawning comprehension, now – who would think a team-sport life lesson would somehow help Haru with a major personal breakthrough??

“So pathetic, we didn’t even qualify for a real competition – that’s how little anyone wanted to swim with us. But we had one girl friend of mine who was just fucking awesome – swam in the club with us, was a beast who gave me a run for my money – until she moved away, that is. But we had our best run with four solid members and even if being co-ed kept us away from meets –” His face gets ugly with all the random meaninglessness of “gender” and Sousuke’s suddenly finding something new he didn’t expect to love about Haru. “–it let us do some community fun-races. Including the medley relay.”

Now his face is the definition of _beauty,_ it’s lit by the memory that fires his eyes and flushes his cheeks and lifts his mouth into a true smile, and Sousuke finds himself _glancing over at Makoto,_ and smiling at him, and somehow he’s smiling back, looking just as lost and enchanted in Haru as he is in his memory.

“Changed my life. So THAT was what ‘together’ meant!! I had something to offer Aki and Nagisa and Rei, I had power to help us get to our goal, they were counting on me. And their faces when I would look up after finishing – they … they were in love. They _loved_ me. No one in my life had ever loved me – except for my grandma. I loved them too.”

He pauses. Total silence. “I loved _all of them._ ” He’s there now, he’s at what a high school English teacher might call his _main idea,_ and Sousuke is very slowly getting it. “I loved Rei’s passion, Nagisa’s spirit. Aki’s ballsiness. Still do. And I loved each as much as the other – there was no way I could choose, it was all or nothing. We couldn’t do that relay without every person.”

He looks at them, and his eyes are huge and fierce, his cheeks hectic. His hands tremble the slightest bit as he finds and grabs Sousuke’s hand, Makoto’s. But his grip is way over firm into vice-like – this is a guy who is _not letting go._ And they’re both under some kind of crazy tongue-tie spell as much as they were on Friday in the coffee shop.

He turns to Makoto first. “Makoto. I love your understanding – I don’t think anyone in my life has ever really got me and you can’t imagine what it’s like to finally feel that. _I love you._ ” Sousuke feels something deep in his heart loosen, seeing Makoto basically fall apart; face going slack, eyes filling, mouth pulling down like an old man’s. He brings Haru’s hand up, kisses it.

Then he’s turning to Sousuke, and to his embarrassment and wonder he feels the _exact same expression_ take over his face, Haru shaking and blurring in front of him through the sudden tears. “Sou. I love your determination. You met me, saw this loser underachiever loner totally set in my ways, and you didn’t let that slide as much as I hated you for it.” Sousuke barks laughter at the 100% _rightness_ of the words. _Les bons mots._ If you wanted to get all pretentious. Haru’s gaze is insistent, like he’s hoping to wash away the hurt and misunderstanding through a look alone – and –

“ _I love you,”_ he tells Sousuke, firmly.

Sousuke does Makoto one better. He leans in, tilts his head, kisses Haru’s lips as gently as he can in thanks. He gets a thrill of pride at the softening in his face when he sits back, old sadness paired with new … contentment?

Hope?

Makoto’s ready to bubble over, he can tell, ready to reciprocate with a _Beowulf_ -length reply about their love for him, and Haru just smiles and shakes his head. “No, Makoto – neither of you guys owe me anything. You just needed to know how … happy you’ve made me, for the first time.” He glances back and forth between them, for the first time tonight seeming finally relaxed – and amazed. “…I really can’t believe this, this is happening. It’s WAY too good to be true…”

“… _what_ is?” Rin’s asking, striding into the apartment like he owns the place, casually closing the front door behind him.

Three used-and-abused, over-emotional faces snap up from the floor to cartoon-gape at the new arrival, like that’ll make him being there make more sense. The fact that the redhead heads for Haru’s kitchen and puts a fresh kettle on, pokes in his cabinets for four new mugs, preps the teapot with the ginger tea leaves, only makes things more surreal. “You really don’t have any booze?” he asks Haru incredulously as he tries under the sink. “’Cause if ever there was a time for booze, I’d fucking say it’s now.”

“Don’t drink,” Haru shrugs, not making a single move to get up and help him, still holding both of their hands, actually. Rin seems to have everything under control, to be fair.

“…it’s true,” Sousuke puts in. “We went out to this club and all he had was beer, and damned if he didn’t morph into the most annoying high-school girl you’ve ever seen. Pogoing, singing off key, giggling all over the place. Kept going on about how ‘totes adorbs Emi’s dress is and I’d fucking wear it every fucking day’. Then pogoing some more.”

Haru shoots him dangerously narrowed eyes. “I did NOT.”

Sousuke raises his right palm. “God as my witness. Didn’t know if I was on a date or a field trip.”

That gets him a nice little bit of theater as Haru gracefully lifts his middle finger, slooowly travels down its length, then perfectly hollows his cheeks and sucks at a glacial speed back to the top. Kisses the fingertip and touches it to Sousuke’s (open) mouth.

“….SO,” Rin says brightly and WAY too-loudly as the smell of sex-hormones builds enough to actually start to be detectable in the air. He ambles over to them and settles cross-legged on the floor, completing their weird little circle. Sousuke finds himself staring at him, at his just-plain _cool –_ his effortless sort of post-apocolyptic style, so night-and-day different from Haru’s insane anarchy. Black black and more black, the sweater tugging around his defined shoulders he knows so well in so many positions, falling loose around his perfect torso. Muscular legs wrapped up in skinny jeans – but folded so quietly, so flexibly under him, like a kid, or a girl. And his hair is down, spilled around his face and shoulders in this sorta shameless hair-commercial way, and Sousuke catches himself wondering: the hair is down, does that mean he’s here to play?

And wants to die at his ridiculousness.

Rin looks at each of them in turn, his gaze direct … and amused, and happy. Unmistakable. Not off-the-rails spastic like he was on Friday, followed by that bone-deep sadness. This is _contentment._ Calm. Satisfaction, maybe even pride…? And Sousuke’s confused, looking at Rin’s pretty face and wondering how much his avalanche of uncharacteristic insight is Rin having a face like a goddamn open book (likely), and how much is something – more. Some kind of understanding between them, maybe he got something out of all those wasted hours imprinting his videos into his subconscious after all… and he feels a little uneasy, and excited, and even guilty somehow that he’s apparently doing something so effortlessly with Rin it took some serious blood and sweat to earn with Haru.

Rin grins. “…here we ALL are, oddball little ‘family,’ happier than pigs in shit. Except for the crying and fighting you guys have been doing, that is, but what can you expect when you’re making a big ol’ chemical reaction?” His eyes dance; he winks cheekily across the circle at Haru.

“Smartass,” Haru tells him, extricating himself from his spot and heading for the whistling kettle.

Makoto’s turning to Rin, a funny combination of irritated and bemused. “What the hell, honey? You not trust me to take care of business, or something? Sheesh. So much for privacy!”

Rin looks genuinely sorry. “You know, you’re actually right. You totally needed your alone time to make your case to Haru, and I come and screw it up. But honestly, I just couldn’t stand the anticipation another second. Torture.” Haru’s mincing into the circle with a tray of steaming mugs – the scent aggressive and delicious – and a bowl of sesame sticks, another of Pocky. The guy’s a junk-food genius, he realizes.

“Well don’t feel bad, Sousuke sort of beat you to the punch,” Makoto smirks across at him, and he’s doing this _thing,_ where he crinkles his eyes in delight and tilts his head to him like the goddamn RCA Victor dog. And Sousuke can’t stand how utterly adorable it is. It’s so cute he can’t even be mad he’s basically getting mocked. “Pretty ridiculous, really. I went and hid in the bathroom when he came over, uh, unexpectedly. And then I started to hear things getting, um, a little frisky out here. Frisky AND kinky.” His eyes actually manage to _twinkle_ and Sousuke can’t believe what he’s seeing. Is this the same dude who almost dislocated his jaw for the same reason not too long ago??

Rin slack-jaw stares from Makoto, to Haru, traveling to Sousuke, back to Haru. “Um, wow. Tell me, Haru… are you some kinda slut? Because doing Makoto then swapping out to do Sousuke…while the poor guy listens, no less… Well, I salute you.” He pops a crisp (and literal) salute off his forehead while Makoto waves his hands in some kind of horrified protest.

Haru seems totally unoffended. “Eh, no, I write big but I got nothing. Maybe you’re the missing ingredient, Rin! Shoulda come here with Makoto. We could’ve all fucked like a pile of bunnies.”

Bingo – Haru’s mouth strikes again, and as they take the required moment of aroused silence Sousuke realizes something: he’s having fun. Not just “a pretty good time,” either; no, this is full-blown, off-the-rails, everyone in their right place saying their lines at the right time f-u-n FUN. More fun than he’s had in a long time… in ever?? Because even college, as top-of-the-world as he was and snugged neatly into his cozy jock-y clique, having sex more regularly than he maybe ever will in his life (ah, college stamina)… well, college didn’t have this feeling of CORRECTNESS. This weirdo sense that some unseen casting director has finished her job and they’re at their first getting-to-know-you event, just shooting the shit and discovering…

…that they all click.

“…I just love bunnies,” Rin’s saying dreamily, and Sousuke snorts at him, manages to somehow achieve the impossible of landing a Pocky in one of his nostrils as he splutters and bitches something about sanitation.

“Well, not to spoil the sexy good time for anyone,” Makoto says apologetically, but in truth he doesn’t seem all that sorry to Sousuke. “But Haru and I did have a chance to talk when I got here about… various stuff. And in the middle of all that I shared some news.” He pauses, smile brimming at his lips; Haru’s tipping a mug that looks like a hollowed-out Stormtrooper head up for a drink, and his eyes _pop_ over the rim.

Rin’s hogging the sesame-stick bowl in his lap and grabs out another handful, compulsively rounds them up into a perfect bundle before taking a giant nervous bite. “News?? Jesus, Mako, what the fuck news? Y’ever heard of this little thing called ‘texting’? Jerk.”

“He’s been a little busy, Rin,” Haru tells him kindly, gently, like he’s making apologies for both hearing the news first and keeping Rin’s lover away from him unfairly… especially when it appears _Rin’s_ the one who shoved Makoto’s ass over here in the first place! Sousuke’s head reels with the crazy new dynamics on display – he won’t call it codependence, because no one seems to be passive-aggressively guilt-tripping anyone. Maybe it’s good old-fashioned Dependence, guys doing VERY un-guy things and acknowledging their messy interconnections. It’s Greek to Sousuke, who’s perfected the art of the uncomplicated transaction, who has always been almost obscenely proud he can meet a guy on a jog or at a seminar and by the next morning have had him, in every way imaginable, without even needing to know his name – AND with both parties coming out feeling satisfied and respected.

He thinks.

This is like the Alice in Wonderland, Through the Looking Glass version of his usual M.O. This is ALL context, all intimacy, getting how someone else will react and adjusting accordingly, long-haul instead of short-term.

And he feels the first quirks of nerves and excitement in his stomach.

“…yeah, well, AquaMan, I can just guess how you kept him ‘busy.’ Hey, speaking of, this is driving me insane. Do the Pocky thing with me – but here, let’s use one of these awesome sesame things instead.” Rin’s either nursing a major case of attention deficit or he’s feeling left out of the Let’s Kiss Haru Club, because he sticks a cracker in his mouth and leans across the circle. Haru rolls his eyes like Rin’s asking to borrow 10,000 yen, then he’s leaning to meet him, probably breaking some lame game rule and slowly – deliberately – sliding his hands into Rin’s hair. Sousuke watches Rin’s eyes flutter shut and he cocks an eyebrow at Makoto across the way – _We SURE Haru isn’t a little, oh, slutty after all? Not that I’m complaining –_ and thinks he gets a look of alarmed/aroused understanding in return.

Two faces – one warm, one cool, weirdly alike – come together and Rin’s screwing any “no-touch” rules too, ridiculously plunging his hands into Haru’s bedhead like he’s auditioning for a romantic lead and moaning lightly. Rin takes charge (with acres-more experience) but Haru holds his own, and Sousuke grins at how stupid-dazed this seasoned professional is when they finally quit.

After ONE kiss.

He restrains himself from fist-bumping Haru.

“A-HEM! So, _dear,_ and, um, other… dear,” Makoto tries again, relaxed enough now to reach over and lightly poke Sousuke’s pec, “here’s my big news: I quit.”

Sousuke’s smart-ass comment about hands-offa-da-merchandize dies, and Rin’s drawing flies, and Haru… Haru’s _glowing._

“…um, what the fuck do you mean, you QUIT. You _quit??_ What the hell, Mako!! How? What’d you do??” Sousuke can’t believe Rin isn’t throwing some tantrum about not being told earlier, and is instead _glowing_ like Haru. Glowing and practically vibrating. Maybe this excitable guy isn’t as kid-like as he initially thought.

Makoto’s blushing, hard, and Sousuke takes his earlier impression back; _this_ is his cutest look. “Yep. Did a whole lot of thinking this weekend, just kept wondering ‘so what if we DID try something else – how bad could that be’? Everything came to a head today –”

“Ha, ha,” Rin remarks.

Makoto smiles. “I was thinking the same stuff over during the shoot and finally just decided ‘fuck it’. Got up, told the director I was done and then knocked the camera over. Just ‘cause.”

Rin’s speechless and Sousuke finds himself _laughing –_ just laughing and laughing. “Oh… oh, dude, I was so very wrong about you. You got balls of titanium, man.”

“Now THAT’d be a great porn gimmick,” Makoto shoots back immediately, and they lean their heads across the circle on each other’s shoulders, struggling to get their laughing jag under control.

Rin pushes them apart. And _there_ it is, his beautiful tears, and they’re tears of fucking JOY this time, and Sousuke’s so struck by the karmic turnaround from their last group meeting he doesn’t know what to do. So he just grabs Haru around his narrow shoulders, snugs him up close against his side, and they watch their new friends’ happiness – the totally improbable success of their half-assed plan – with the bizarre pride of parents.

And Haru’s somehow speaking up again – like whatever he and Makoto shared applies equally to the redhead still in the trenches. “Makoto may be out, but that doesn’t mean you’re stuck there, Rin. It’s up to you. You may even need or want to stay, even for a while… but you have more drive in your fucking little toe than my whole body. When you’re ready to go, I know you’ll GO.” He quirks up a corner of his mouth, a classic HaruSmile. “I’m a little scared for their safety, actually. But just a little. Let the motherfuckers burn.”

“Will you at least warn Emiko and Miri? I love those ladies,” Makoto says worriedly, and Sousuke pictures him making an anonymous call to the studio, maybe using one of those voice-masking things, and Rin getting all pissy later that he fucked up his grand quitting plan, and he grins to himself.

“Jesus, Mako, I’m no _murderer_. It’s OK,” he pats a giant shoulder. “…but truly, Haru, _Sousuke,_ thank you. You guys have no idea really what you’ve done.” His eyes are luminous, all joking out of him, a hand gripping Haru’s knee, Sousuke’s.

Sousuke’s moved to grab his mug (Einstein on his bike, crazy hair – with clothes that disappear when you pour in something hot) and raise it for a toast. The other three guys do the same, eyes touching one to the next around the circle, turquoise to scarlet to emerald to royal blue – and how right, royal blue, Haru’s like some odd little king and this is some new kingdom they’re making. Scary, exciting, but real.

“I propose a toast,” he says. “To new beginnings.”

“Hear hear!” Makoto says enthusiastically, and Rin pokes him in the side, and Haru blushes, and they drink. Finish what’s left of their cooling ginger tea, still spicy and good.

“…anyone up for a swim…?” Haru finally asks.

***

OT4! OT4! Yeeeeeah POLY! ;P

I still maintain writing these relationships is at least half as exhausting as having them probably is (esp. if Rin’s involved, dear boy) but given how fun that was, I’m thinking it’s worth it. I hope you lovely folks enjoyed – apologies for the high-school-debate levels of chit-chat and minimal levels of smut, but never fear!

Also: the fabulous [TheGirlOnFandoms](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlOnFandoms/pseuds/TheGirlOnFandoms) noticed those crazy leggings Haru’s wearing – that I thought I made up cause really, HOW could that be a thing – are, indeed, [a thing](http://www.amazon.com/Dawdyfu-Womens-Letters-Spandex-Leggings/dp/B00KZA3NJ0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1421821599&sr=8-1&keywords=caution+tape+leggings). Thanks for the scary-good eye, madam ;D


	24. “Be our beautiful boy…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the, uh, OT4 "eagle" has officially landed ;). Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think! AO3's rich-text was down sadly so there w/b 100% less italics and general prettiness this chap, which is probably just as well.
> 
> THANK YOU to all of you, you are the best <3

Haru cannot, absolutely CANNOT believe Sou’s going to let someone else drive his baby.

Sure, the circumstances are pretty fucking extenuating. Homeboy’s definitely steadier than when he came busting into his apartment like one of his damn romance novels gone totally, totally awry, grabbed Haru, hauled him up using his right shoulder despite whatever damage that may have done (dumbass! Drunk, drunk dumbass :/). Landed them on his bed and worked him over like … well, like he’s never been worked over in his extremely brief lovelife. Sure, it was tremendously, painfully, really fucking hot. And it was also wrong, WRONG, poor Makoto squirreled away in his damn bathroom like the hoariest of old soap opera / opera-opera / Shakespearian / damn prehistoric cave-theater clichés (whatever passed for silly romantic mugging as entertainment to their cave-person ancestors).

Somehow, his life had rapidly become a farce. From absolute-zero romantic attachments to one long-distance-non-relationship to that-plus-screwing-around with a colleague who also by all indications probably hated him to –

To his lovely LD-N-R confessing through his laptop screen with what appeared to be the utmost sincerity.

To the indefinable CONNECTION with this beautiful man who’s basically dropped into his life from out of the sky (or walked in through a giant flatscreen).

To this dumbass drunk-off-his-ass pain-in-his-ass beautiful man who was far too wasted to take seriously, who needed ibuprofen and H2O stat, and who was too drunk NOT to believe. Whose first let-slip of “I love you” could’ve been missed as he basically did his best to hit ALL of Haru’s pleasure-centers simultaneously (…over-achiever), if Haru hadn’t been paying attention, which he could surely be forgiven for, all those damn fingers up his ass.

…Haru was paying attention. Haru heard.

Ugh, then the ultimate farce of that fight … and the words it pulled out of him, the long unwinding ribbon that both hurt to reveal as he felt it tug from his chest, his throat, and yet felt like maybe the best thing he’d ever said. Ever, in his whole, dumb, too-quiet life, too much quiet punctuated by over the top weirdness. Words that were maybe the most HIM, that he hoped made clear what he was wishing for from these two ridiculous, lovely men. What he hoped against all odds – that they would understand his too-slow-to-come realization, that he may always be someone who’s destined (doomed) to be alone but that being alone to date HADN'T WORKED FOR HIM. Maybe was killing him, in some subtle way that he hadn’t understood and couldn’t be measured. 

And he has the fiercest, sharpest hope – that they heard him, and believe him.

And as Sou leaned in for his kiss, he saw this suffusion of relief sink into his face, relax it into something new.

And as Makoto pulled his hand up for his kiss, he had the uncanniest flash – this is what all those damn princesses must’ve felt like when their knight, their champion, paid tribute before fighting and maybe dying for them. (And he wanted to hari-kari at his sappiness.)

…And Rin, crazy, beautiful, suspiciously unsurprised to find them all there in that state Rin, sliding right into the fourth spot, rounding things out with perfect symmetry Rin. Funny, Haru realizes as he pulls an extra few jammers out for him (trying to find his biggest possible pairs if such thing existed…), Rin didn’t require any filling-in on what went down before he’d barged in, on what he’d missed. He didn’t even demand his OWN corny custom-HaruLoveConfession. It was like he was the supervisor dropping by to see how the work on his project was going in his absence … trusting they were taking care of business just fine without him. And like he knew everything he needed to know about how Haru felt just by looking at him, needling him and getting something back, coercing him into that kiss … 

Or maybe that he was really looking forward to finding out for himself and didn’t want Haru spoiling the punchline for him.

“…um, Space Cowboy. We sure your loverman was the only one drunk here?” Rin – speak of the goddamn devil, that boy’s gonna drive him … somewhere. He’s at Haru’s front door with the other two guys, all waiting for him and ready to go as he pokes around in his bureau drawer. He’s gleefully twirling Sou’s keyring on a finger – Haru heard vague snippets of a plan as he was wandering in his own thoughts, that they’re piling in Makoto’s car to retrieve the Jaguar, which Rin’s gonna drive (!) as they caravan to Sou’s apartment. For swimming, ostensibly.

Yes. For swimming.

“Do you even have a damn license?” he fires back at the redhead as he finally closes the drawer, comes to join them. He’s caught up in sliding into his flipflops and getting his Army coat from the neat line of hooks on the wall and he’s surprised to find all three of them just sorta gazing at him when he turns back. Gazing … like he’s a cute little toddler doing something adorable, or a kitten asking them for dinner in its cute little kitten meow. Like he’s their little fucking MASCOT.

He isn’t positive about how he feels about that.

“Haru doesn't,” Sou’s RUDELY, it’s none of his fucking business, is it? – saying to Rin. “S’pose in Tokyo you can get by OK without, but that’s just shortsighted thinking. Lazy, too, really. I’ve been wanting to take him out, do some behind-the-wheel, but he refuses. Like everything else.”

“Oh, you’ve been behind the wheel PLENTY with me, Sou,” Haru snaps back at him, irritated shading into pissed at his apparent inability to NOT-belittle Haru’s patheticness even after the whole love confession thing, and Rin is in maroon-faced sheer delight, and Makoto’s the only one apparently on his side.

Dear, dear Makoto.

“Eh, don’t feel bad, Haru,” he says, smiling THAT smile down at him. “It’s like taking your life into your hands every time you drive plus it turns you into an asshole a little bit more each time you road-rage somebody. You aren’t missing a thing.”

“Plus you don’t need ANY extra help being an asshole, apparently, so sounds like a good plan,” Rin fires at him, ticking his eyes between him and Makoto in a predatory way but corners of his generous lips lifted playfully-dangerously. Haru doesn’t think twice, at all really, just steps over to him, enjoying the surprise on his face as he gets WAY too close, follows a hand deftly around his oversized sweater hem and ducks under it. Finds the waistband of his tight, tight skinny jeans, moves in even closer head to toes as he simultaneously draws his hand down over the sweet curve of his ass, continues down his powerful thigh, touch firm but graceful. He gets just close enough mouth-to-mouth to share breath, one, two, three before he withdraws, slips around to get the door.

Rin’s a narrow-eyed flushed kill-or-fuck? MESS. “…OK, Haru, what the fuck? That on some nature show you like? Mating habits of the Serengeti?”

Haru steps into the hallway, shrugging at Rin as Sou and Makoto file out behind him, both looking a little stunned. “No. I was just making sure my jammers would fit you.”

*

It’s a tight squeeze, getting two giants and one good-sized guy (and Haru) into Makoto’s little Honda, but somehow they figure it out. Rin demands shotgun (pulling rank, Haru thinks) and still seems a tiny-bit pissed over the feel he copped, but he deserved it. Haru feels … something about Rin, his aggressiveness (so much more so than Sou, who always seems slightly embarrassed or sometimes hesitant or just-plain reactive in their verbal bouts). Rin’s none of those things. He’s a goddamn smart missile aimed right at Haru, even as he senses not a single drop of nastiness from him.

Haru has no idea for sure – he’s had next to no practice being incessantly teased by anyone who doesn’t actually hate and/or want him dead, so the idea that someone can call him “asshole” and maybe mean “I love you” is hard to beat into his head. It’s totally from growing up an only kid, he knows immediately; home was a delightful seesaw between brutally-enforced mini-adult-ness and desperate avoidance among all parties. No big brother to sit on his head and gleefully threaten to fart and then relent when he cried, let him up and give him a hug. He definitely got some decent attempts at grade-school socialization from Nagisa but Nagi wasn’t into nasty profanity used as terms of endearment (was, in fact, fond of plain old-fashioned terms of endearment, even in the fourth grade). Talking about Aki earlier gives him a little flash of how rough and tumble they used to be together, but it wasn’t like this, where someone is AT HIM all the time.

Makoto and Rin hold some conversation of their own up front as Makoto drives (and he’s an excellent driver, Haru can tell – swift but responsible, smooth-shifting, insisting they all buckle-up before he’d even put his foot on the gas, eyes on the road though he allows his shifting hand to do double-duty rubbing Rin’s shoulder, patting his knee). From the little gestures it looks like Rin is pissed or maybe just agitated and Makoto’s being a nice boyfriend and listening to him.

Sou’s hand meanwhile is a little more adventurous in the backseat with Haru, resting big and warm and motionless high on his right leg, cupping his inner thigh, just grazing his crotch with one finger. It’s an ambiguous gesture. Sexual (Haru feels way too hot there than makes any sense logically, and his hand’s stillness almost paradoxically drives him crazier, just that potential for movement). But also weirdly familiar, friendly, intimate; consoling, somehow, maybe because of that last little scene that to be fair was all Sou’s fault. Possessive, too – something unmistakeable about his decision to be on the inside of Haru’s thigh, to cradle his long fingers all the way around, like he’s anchoring himself, digging himself in for whatever the hell they’re getting into next.

Haru’s so caught up he jumps in the seat when Sou lays his other hand on his right knee. “Are you OK?” he asks Haru, low, looking at him intently with his light eyes catching the street lights in a long bright chain, sliding over and through them hypnotically.

“I should be asking YOU that,” Haru shoots back, immediately, forgetting the whole ridiculous scene at his door, shifting in the seat to turn to him, feet sliding on a stack of papers in the footwell. He pulls his legs up hurriedly and tucks his feet to the side, not wanting to stomp all over something of Makoto’s that may be important. When he left for Haru’s tonight, he wasn’t expecting a clown-car full of … what they fuck were they all??

Sou’s hands are gone, and Haru’s strangely missing them, until the big man leans in to the limit of Makoto’s seatbelt, wraps his arms firmly around Haru’s back and pulls him to the limit of HIS seatbelt. He fits the lower half of his face to Haru’s forehead, and Haru feels his mouth in a smile as he answers. “Hmmm. Lotta concern for me tonight, Haru-CHAN. What’s that about?”

Haru huffs into Sou’s muscular neck, the I-Am-Playing-Dumb act so thick he feels like nominating the fucker for an Oscar. Best Foreign Film – Japan, "The Unbelieveable Tale of a Rockheaded Man," dir/star: Sousuke Yamazaki. They could sell it hard as some mystical Shinto bullshit.

“Jesus Christ, Sou. You’re drunk as a skunk, I’m guessing you don’t feel your best. Plus you had Makoto almost knock your jaw off which I’m ALSO guessing doesn’t feel too good, though I can’t say you maybe didn’t deserve it.”

He still feels the smile, tickling him in a place he didn’t think could be ticklish. “…you ever had people fighting over you before? Guys?”

Haru’s suddenly barking laughter and Rin’s cutting whatever he’s saying to swivel back to look, Makoto’s eyes finding Haru’s instantly in the rearview. He gives a little headshake, not even knowing why – nope, all good, nothing to see back here – and their front-seat carmates turn slowly back to their conversation.

“Nah, not even close.”

Sou pulls his head closer by the back of his neck, rests his chin on top. “Sorry, I don’t buy that for a second. Nobody? School? Ever go out to a bar and cause an ugly scene, need the bouncers to break it up?”

“DUDE, you’re the author, where are the observation skills? People at school wanted to quarantine me so I wouldn’t infect them. And when I go to a bar I … well, I don’t drink, for one, and I have the ‘I’m really into this band, I’m gonna stare stoically or slamdance like a fucking spaz’ thing down. AS you know. You don’t get hit on much when you do that, as a rule.” He stops short, flash of a too-bright men’s room cutting into his mind, of clumsy hands scrabbling at his waist. He shoves the unwanted memory away.

Sou backs off of him, then he’s petting his head like a damn cat and looking so stupidly fond. “Cut it out,” Haru growls, knocking his hand off.

“Ah, just gonna have to make up for some lost time, that’s all,” he says, unperturbed.

“….looks like we’re here!” Makoto’s saying, brightly.

*

They do a quick change-up, Sou, Haru and Rin getting out and Sou giving Haru a quick “think about it” look over his shoulder before he slides into the passenger side of the luxury car. Rin just stares at the sleek silly thing for a second in the pleasantly cool night, hands on his hips, before he too turns back to Haru. “I canNOT believe you’ve given up the chance to get to drive this thing. Are you totally mental??”

Haru sorta can’t take the look of actual wonder on his face, unmistakable, and the thought that finally SOMEONE will be able to properly enjoy Sou’s SweetRidethatPornBought. In a pattern he thinks may be worrisome, he quickly trots over to Rin, grabs his soft cheeks in both hands, gives him a giant noisy kiss like something you’d see in a cartoon. Smiles truly when he pulls back so he’s sure there’s no misunderstanding this time, and is ridiculously tickled to see – aGAIN – the instant flush that’s magic, that turns him from angular maybe-sorta tough-guy into melting treat-this-woman-right.

And Haru had been reasonably sure he was gay …?

Through his smile, tells him “Have a fun time, Rin. Careful though, I think he’ll murder you if you breathe on it wrong.”

Rin’s turn to snort, eyes doing that dancey thing again. “Thanks, good to know,” he smirks, then he grabs one of Haru’s hands from his cheek, lays a kiss in the palm, disappears into the driver’s side.

Haru shakes his head, turns back to the little green Honda, waiting trustily for him to be done. Rin left the door ajar so he slips in, buckles up before Makoto can tell him to.

“…hi, Makoto,” he suddenly feels like saying, so shyly, watching as the Jag takes a suspiciously long time getting started ahead of them.

“…hi, Haru,” he hears back, soft, happy, Haru’s snapping his head to the right unable to avoid looking anymore. And Makoto’s sitting so calm, so still, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on the stick, big, graceful, quiet hands. Leaning his head back against the headrest, tilting it to drink the sight of Haru-in-his-passenger-seat in, looking like Haru knows HE gets when he sees the harbor on a gorgeous day. Just – that total relaxation, sorta a thousand-meter stare but picking up every detail, both satisfied and famished at the same damn time.

Haru’s blushing, he knows it. How could he NOT, having this man look at him like that? 

“I’m sorry, that you had to sit in my damn bathroom hearing that. And that you had to think he was attacking me, especially right after what you’d just told me! That wasn’t right,” he gets out in a rush, and it’s such a jumble he can hardly make sense of it. But Makoto apparently followed every word.

He hardly does anything. It’s the tiniest gesture. He just reaches over with his shifting hand, gently takes Haru’s where it was shoved between his legs, folds it in his own. Haru’s suddenly back at his favorite coffee shop, and he suddenly remembers that he LOVES the place, and they’re all meeting for the first time again but this time everything works out and no one fucks up and no one leaves … and Makoto holds Haru’s hand. 

And it might be the best feeling ever.

He tips his head into his headrest, gazing at Makoto sideways, as HE also blushes, says, “That’s okay, Haru – you didn’t expect EITHER of us guys to come over tonight, you were having a nice peaceful time alone writing and here you get me oversharing, trying to make out with you! And it sounds like Sousuke-san really … feels strongly for you.” Makoto’s blush looks almost painful at this point but it only makes him look better. “God – that couldn’t be clearer… obviously if I’d seen what you guys were, uh, doing, I would’ve known you … wanted it. But, honestly. I think the worry went away pretty quick when I could get out and see you. I was really just pissed.”

He has to stop there, swallowing. Haru remembers the show his Adam’s apple gave him and Sou at the coffee shop when Makoto faked that orgasm – how could he forget? This is the real-deal flip-side of that. Or at least a preview of coming attractions…?

Haru curls to face him, leans quickly in and kisses his lips, softly, screaming laughter in the back of his head at the extreme lifelong kiss-deficit he’s definitely making up now. He doesn’t have to smile reassuringly when he tilts back this time, face feeling grave yet peaceful as he says, “You weren’t oversharing. And I’m really happy to hear you weren’t worried.”

Makoto crinkles his eyes back at him – and brakelights flicker in front of them as the Jag finally sets off.

*

“Good evening, Yamazaki-san,” a tall, severe-looking man says pleasantly from behind the concierge desk in the lobby, as they amble over behind Sou. Haru knows they would usually be able to stay on the elevator from the garage straight to the top, no need to interact with the “plebes,” but this time Sou needs to let them know Makoto’s humble Honda is no interloper and is OK to be there.

He’s gotten familiar with this particular night-shift guy due to his own odd hours in this new, weird “second home,” starting with slight nods as he’d pass through on his way to the elevator, subtly escalating to the most-discreet little shared quasi-intimacies. Sou had apparently warned all desk staff the new, frequent, slightly-off visitor was with him and somehow Severe Night-Shift Guy had intuited he and Haru were working on a project. It wasn’t long until he’d perk up the slightest bit when he saw Haru come in, grocery bags or carrying-case of old records weighing him down, and try to get him to spill about the book. 

Haru never budged but something got Night-Shift Guy feeling comfortable enough to switch to SOUSUKE as his favored topic of attempted information-gathering/conversation. The guy was clearly worried for him; apparently, if Sou wasn’t habitually alone, he was accompanied by an anonymous serial-parade of guys, some of whom arrived and left alone, NONE of whom showed up twice (as far as the guy had seen). Haru was the first repeated face the guy remembers seeing in all his time working there. 

“…and none of those others since you,” the guy told him, one eyebrow quirking up.

Sadly for the guy, Haru’s no more willing to reveal personal details about the tenant of the penthouse suite than he is about the book, so he’s been given the sobriquet “Mystery Man.” He gets a little smile whenever he hears an “Ah, Mystery Man…!” across the lobby … but the image of all those guys, drifting in and out of this rich-yet-empty waystation and meaning not a damn thing, makes him disproporationately sad, or angry, he can’t decide which.

So he secretly thrills as they pull up behind Sou, looking like his backup dancers, maybe his bodyguards (well … Makoto and Rin do, anyway). Severe Night-Shift Guy is an excellent concierge, discrete and professional to a fault with the exception of his nosy little chats with Haru, and his poker-face is great – but he is clearly struggling to hang onto it in the face of this highly-unexpected turn of events on his shift.

Haru feels himself grinning.

“Good evening,” Sou’s saying back pleasantly, somehow managing to come off brain-surgeon sober, and Haru feels another one of his little stabs of admiration for the guy’s uncanny social skills (at putting on fronts and playing the game, anyway, he amends). “Quiet night?”

“Certainly, sir … Mondays, you know. Looks like you may have some plans, though…?” he asks casually, fiddling with some papers, and Haru can hardly believe the guy’s violation of what he’s sure is some sort of hospitality code, one that requires guests be allowed to parade past with hookers and/or farm animals and should only be interrupted to suggest good restaurants in the area.

Sou just smiles. “Yeah, Nanase-san and I will be entertaining some friends tonight. Not sure yet what’s on the agenda – we definitely will be enjoying the pool, but after that we’re wide open.”

“…as the Grand Canyon,” Rin puts in, helpfully. Haru gazes with interest as Makoto turns his back to them all and takes ten steps away, trying too late to look like he isn’t with them.

“…SO,” Sou continues, “I need to register a green Honda Civic in the garage for the evening, plate number…?” He trails off but Makoto’s still in no shape to remember or at least report his number, holding up a warning hand as he continues to face away.

“That’s just fine, sir – no need. Would … would you like me to arrange that the pool be, uh, ‘shut down for unexpected maintenance’ for the evening? It would be my pleasure,” Severe Night-Shift Guy says a bit hurriedly, and Haru’s sure of the faintest blush hiding way back on his cheeks. He pretty much can’t believe this is happening. 

But Sou’s taking the high road, thanking him and declining, and as they all turn to walk to the elevators the concierge catches his eye and subtly winks.

*

Turns out they don’t need that concierge’s help to turn Sousuke’s poor pool into a giant STI hazard, should the opportunity come up – they find the sleek little locker room deserted. 

Rin is … well, sorta beside himself by the insane turn of events … insane, and at the same time so NORMAL. HOW could this all feel so normal?? So comfortable, so weirdly familiar? He just drove a Jaguar, for fuck’s sake, as the rightful owner lounged hugely shotgun, cracking jokes and laughing freely at Rin’s obnoxious humor and asking a few questions, nothing too personal. But Rin found himself spilling to this dark guy as he leaned back in his seat and listened with what seemed like the greatest interest. Called him on some stuff too – challenged him, got him a little riled up, then had the balls to laugh at him as he huffed, furiously hunting for the right thing to say. 

“…you do that a lot, don’t you,” Sousuke’d mused, his oh-so-pretty eyes doing this twinkling thing – and he reached out, like he wasn’t really thinking about it, and tucked loose hair behind Rin’s ear like every goddamn male lead in every rom-com since the beginning of time.

Rin’s heart made this unsettling pause despite itself.

And now they’re at Sousuke’s extravagant place, walking around like the goddamn Rat Pack or something, invading it, basically, and Rin’s so namelessly excited at the feeling of the four of them – out – together – he can’t help his lame little quip about getting spread open later. He doesn’t think the concierge minded. Frankly, he would absolutely not mind – he knows how Makoto feels about this, knows to his very heart; he’s getting steady positive vibes from Sousuke that were only corroborated by that car ride; and Haru…

Haru, who keeps fucking fucking him up.

Haru, who is DEFINITELY in the right set of leggings, he should be in a damn full-on BODY-STOCKING that screams CAUTION. Because Rin looks at him, sees those cool oceanic eyes, so flip-flopped different from his own, and something just flicks on (…or is it off?) in his brain. Pulls these baiting comments directly from his mouth without thinking, like Haru’s a magnet that just draws him out, all of him – his words, his helpless looks, his damn obsessive thoughts – all swirling and coalescing in this totally alien way around this totally unknown person. It’s like Haru has something, some secret he may not even know he’s hiding, that Rin’s been banging his head against the wall for his whole life. Wondering why he’s hurried from day to day while having no clue WHY he’s hurrying, what he’s supposed to be moving towards. 

And Rin has no earthly idea how this bitchy albeit gorgeous little diva with a perplexing tendency to mack on him is supposed to be his fucked-up messiah…?? Figures – that’s just the way the universe works…

“Rin.” His fucked-up messiah is right in front of him, suddenly, close, holding out a few pairs of jammers. Rin has no idea when he managed to change into his own (identical) pair – they just got in the locker room, and he knows he was off on a little mental journey for a second there, but this is ridiculous. 

“Damn, Haru. You strip so fast it’s, uh, paradoxically a good thing you AREN’T a stripper. People’d be constantly demanding refunds. Personnel file’d be a nightmare.” He snorts at the image (suddenly wishing he could see just that) and Haru’s peaceful death-mask look remains unchanged.

“Stripping is a fucking nightmare, actually. I researched it for one of my books, shadowed a few guys at a place for a few months. Not that it has anything on porn.” The peaceful look drops and the placid blue eyes laser-beam almost violently into his; Rin drops the jammers he was holding in surprise. “Damn, Rin. Talk about a couple products that’re a perfectly-packaged box of poison.”

It’s suddenly hushed at the other end of the benches where Sousuke’s helping Mako find a pair of legskins that fit. “…wow, Haru,” Rin finally starts, tentatively, scooping the jammers up and absently comparing to find the one that seems slightly bigger. “What’s your book about?”

Haru leans into the lockers to face him; Sousuke ambles over next to him, already in his own (long, lean, skintight, painted-on) legskins. “Mmmm, Haru. I think I missed this one – I’d love to read it,” he murmurs.

Haru barks an ugly laugh. “I don’t know about that. It’s not a pretty story. I based it loosely on the experience of one of the guys I met; he goes in to be the breadwinner and systematically sorta gets his soul beat down as they turn him into a piece of pretty meat. He starts hating dudes, people in general, can’t get it up with his boyfriend anymore. Then the shit REALLY hits the fan when a couple guys attack him during a lapdance.”

More silence, a little charged this time. Mako’s breaking it sorta violently and Rin shoots a look at him, caught with one leg in and one out of his borrowed skins and seeming disproportionately … upset. “Well, what happens??”

And Haru shoots HIS look back at Mako, some THING of … mystery; and Makoto’s relaxing (???). Pulling on his other leg unselfconsciously (‘cause hey – nothing to see here) and just listening for Haru’s reply. Rin turns back to Haru to listen too. He knew they had this THING. He shoved Mako out the door tonight (...God, was that just tonight??) on the strength of this THING. And to see it in action, in full-strength confirmation, is sci-fi creepy, the littlest-bit sad to be on the outside of, and weirdly awesome.

Haru apparently is confident whatever was wrong with Makoto’s fine now, ‘cause he’s flipped back to his apparent default Little Shit persona and is ditching them, heading for the pool. “…you’ll have to read it to find out,” comes drifting back behind him.

*

Sousuke insists on a 2-on-2 freestyle race, 50m each leg. So the big dude likes sprinting, apparently. He also grabbily picks Haru as his teammate like someone calling dibs on the known brainiac at trivia night at the pub. 

Rin just smiles beatifically at him. Poor, macho, beefcakey dude, probably gonna sink to the bottom if he pauses for a second, has no way of knowing the dark horse candidate he just passed up. True, his man’s deadly in the water too (he doesn’t like to call him The Makonator for nothing, and it’s not just a nickname for bedtime). But Rin, now; Rin’s dangerous and he thinks he’s gonna have fun letting Sousuke know that.

Haru, too.

They form a loose circle on the pooldeck, doing variations on stretching that he finds hilarious. Mako’s bouncing up and down a little bit like something out of "Rocky" (though he’s 1000 times more attractive than Sly Stallone, of course), from badly-hidden excitement more than any attempt to spare himself injury. Haru’s standing stoically, arms crossed on his slim chest, nominally in their circle out of politeness, but Rin bets from the body language if they weren’t there he would’ve walked out of the locker room and right into the pool, just fallen in, without pausing. 

Sousuke, though … big dude is INTENSE. He’s got some hardcore pre-swim ritual apparently, aimed at reduction of lactic buildup and extra turbo-boost something-something … and he’s delaying them all, really. Just so he might get some tiny edge enough to beat him and Makoto.

Ha.

“So, Sousuke, you like … doin’ it freestyle?” Rin asks casually. As per usual, his smart-ass comment has a disproportionate impact, Mako scoffing and cuffing his head (“…Hey!” he protests), Sousuke popping his head up and assessing him from his spread-eagle on the pooldeck, and Haru suddenly looking … dismayed. He feels bad, screws his eyebrows together and puts a hand on the shorter guy’s shoulder. “Hey, you know me, I’m just being a pain in the ass,” he says apologetically (for what, he isn’t even sure). 

Sousuke’s actually answering him, finally unfolding from the pooldeck in a blatant show of force. “Actually, yeah. Freestyle’s not bad. Gets the job done. But I’d go with butterfly if I had the choice.”

Both Rin AND Haru shoot stares at him, Rin delighted, Haru – again – dismayed, though to a lesser degree than at his “doin’ it freestyle” crack. “You can’t do it anymore, can you,” Haru says softly, and Sousuke freezes, eyes fixed on Haru. “…I never have wanted to pry, it’s absolutely none of my fucking business. I’m so sorry, Sou.”

“Makoto.” Sousuke suddenly turns to his man, who’s watching the odd little scene with his usual quiet empathy. “Let me guess: backstroke.”

Makoto relaxes into a smile, claps him companionably on the elbow (staying away from his shoulders, Rin sees). “Wow, Sousuke! You have a real eye for this, I’m impressed.”

“…he has a real eye for you,” Haru corrects him automatically, getting him a giant volley of laughter from Rin as Mako blushes adorably and Sousuke … well, poor Sousuke gets this scary look like he needs to walk Haru back into the locker room for a "talking-to." 

“Oh, no, no, Sousuke – please, I love that! I’m very flattered,” Mako says quickly, switching over to squeezing the big guy’s elbow and – Rin knows – being completely honest. “Please don’t be embarrassed. I actually feel good knowing that mixed in with all the nasty creepy sad dudes were a couple of shining lights like you guys watching us. I … I sorta can’t believe that, really.” He does his best MakoSmile at Sousuke and the guy caves, Rin can tell – hell, NO one can withstand the force of Tachibana Makoto operating on all eight cylinders.

“Haru didn’t watch you guys,” Sousuke says out of nowhere – and while the pool’s getting no closer at this rate, Rin confesses the conversation has morphed into something bizarrely compelling on its own.

“Huh. Really,” Mako says thoughtfully, while Haru’s starting to look like HE'D like to take Sousuke aside to mete out some discipline of his own. Rin’s beginning to like the way these dudes roll.

Sousuke pulls his arms across his crazy-broad chest, one after the other, grimacing a little at the stretch. “Nope. Total fucking perv, don’t get me wrong – something tells me he’s got kinks I haven’t even heard of, which is funny given that –” He cuts himself off as Haru’s gaze turns suspiciously placid.

Rin respectfully gives him a few beats figuring maybe he got gassy mid-sentence or something. But he can only take so much. “’Given that’? What? Inquiring minds wanna know, Loose-Lips Hoolihan.”

“Let’s get this race started,” Sousuke says briskly, heading for the pool and making a little show of rubbing his hands together.

Rin sighs and turns to Haru. “What?? What’s your kinky-ass sexy secret?”

Haru raises his eyebrows at him calmly. “Oh, he must be talking about me being a virgin. I was a virgin when we met.” He gets this scary look again. “IF you subscribe to the bullshit cultural-mainstream mythos that popping your cherry always means getting something stuck in a hole, that is.” He tips his head over to include Mako. “I just fucking HATE that bullshit.” Mako – curiouser and curiouser – looks to be in extreme extremis.

“Well, it is the best definition we got.” Sousuke sorta looks like a tree, solid and giant and immovable with his arms doing this perfect don’t-fucking-try-it fold over his chest. “Sounds like you’re just pissed I was your first.”

“Typical macho Sou crap,” Haru says airily as he drifts over to join him … and then the Giant Immovable Tree proves not so immovable after all, grabbing the little man as soon as he’s in arm’s length, sucking him in like some kind of octopus or giant squid or something. Just … wrapping around, like he really DOES want to consume him, bending him over swiftly, kissing him unexpectedly and – to be frank – violently. Haru can’t even get a single hand up with the way Sousuke caught him, so the whole thing is like some weird trust exercise you might do on a sexual retreat. 

And the sight of Haru bent almost completely helpless like that…

And the sounds as he gasps – soft, low – against Sousuke’s rough mouth…

Well, Rin’s ready for some of that too.

And when he looks over at Makoto, Rin’s watching a little tour de force of pure reaction. His body – that big, carefully restrained physicality that could unleash such brutal harm if it wanted yet is brought to heel by Mako’s sweet nature with almost no exception – well, his man seems to be doing everything he can to hold himself in check, in place. Heavy shoulders tense, his hands in (unconscious?) fists, whole orientation sorta turned to the blatant scene like he’s a track-and-field guy getting ready to crouch for a dash. But his face, though; God, Makoto’s face is a symphony of inner conflict. His narrowed eyes and set jaw spell trouble (Rin knows that set jaw well) … but at the same time he’s breathing way too fast, and while those eyes look deadly they’re also … sorta melting with need. Like he can see himself doing that just as much as Rin can. He really, really can’t be more obvious if he tried.

Rin slides over to him, works an arm around his waist so subtly (and Mako’s so distracted) his man jumps and squeaks, looks over at him in alarm. Apparently that’s enough to break up Sousuke’s MackAttack too, and he finally lets Haru go, both of them angry-red.

“Looks like you guys gave yourselves a little headstart on the race. No fair, cheaters!” Rin smirks, then, “Well, we’ll catch up, though,” and he turns, takes gentle hold of Makoto’s chin. Benefit of hours of on-the-job training: Mako gets his gist instantly and does this sort of collapse downward to him, tucking his head to meet him and turning inward and enfolding him in his arms. They meet in the middle at EXACTLY the right spot, the right moment; Mako’s touch is yielding, exploratory, undercurrent of a smile (he needed this, apparently…), letting Rin take the lead. Which he’s only too happy to do, cradling Mako’s big head in his hands so he can more-easily turn it where he wants as he kisses him.

He might also get Mako to dip him in the other guys’ direction. Just a bit.

The professionals revolve back to standing and turn to face Haru and Sousuke. Haru looks like he could be watching a documentary on dolphin migration for God’s sake, he’s so detached … yet fixated. SUCH AN ODD GUY. Sousuke’s reaction is about a thousand percent more straightforward and is primarily going on south of his legskins’ waistband, though to be fair (which Rin does grudgingly) he knows he and Mako aren’t responsible for ALL of that.

“…so who won?” Haru asks, unexpectedly. “This, freestyle thing.”

Rin’s just laughing again – Haru may be a fucking weirdo but apparently he’s HIS kind of fucking weirdo – and Sousuke’s actually claiming it was them, the amateurs. “You shoulda seen your faces,” he says smugly.

But Makoto’s the voice of reason and reminds them all they really should get their fool asses in the pool before sunrise. 

Being Mako, he ACTUALLY says, “I don’t feel … qualified to judge a winner, just yet. Let’s swim – start with something we can all agree on, then see what happens.”

Magic Makoto.

So they do it Sousuke’s way. By some unspoken agreement – maybe it’s just “he-who’s-most-pumped-goes-first” – he’s on deck, crouched low, in the lead spot for his team. With size-matching, that puts Mako next to him, mirroring his pose. Hanging back with Haru in the second spot, Rin drinks in the view and sorta can’t believe his eyes… and it’s almost, almost enough to throw him off his game. Almost.

“…not too shabby, huh?” Haru murmurs to him out of the side of his mouth, and Rin stares back as the blue-blue eyes squint in real amusement. Then the ass-ogler’s elbowing him rudely. “Oh! Call it.”

“Ow! Alright, already! On three –” Rin begins – and two sets of absurdly perfect glutes, hamstrings, and calves tense – 

“– two, one, GO!”

– and it’s glorious, over ten years blown away like a candle flame, he and Haru are hanging over the edge going absolutely fucking NUTS cheering their men on, they’re like a couple of high-school kids from rival schools trying to out-scream each other at a meet. What the fuck, Haru’s going just as crazy as he is – so either he’s a closet wild-man or just REALLY loves swimming. And maybe Rin’s seeing things, but he thinks their teammates are pulling out every last stop: they’re already coming right at them like two monstrous and totally terrifying highly-organized aquatic tornados, shoulder-to-shoulder like the damn Kentucky Derby, and they’re smacking the wall in perfect unison, and he and Haru –

– are FLYING together over them, shit it can’t be safe to do without blocks, but they’re fucking airborne, and that’s it. He’s never, ever felt such perfect serendipity next to someone, he suddenly knows, as they finally complete their entries and madly dolphin kick in the sudden silence. Not his swim-teammates, not friends; not his mom or dad or Gou. Not Makoto. It’s not anything that makes sense. It just IS.

Then they’re eating the length of the pool, just fucking chewing it up, spitting it out like it never even was, flip-turning back to home. When they surface again he senses more than sees their arms recovering and reaching in total tandem and catches a glimpse of Haru’s face, turned to him in surprise, eyes open wide – 

And they’re hitting the wall together.

Rin’s hearing comes back in this chaotic mess of “Ahhhh RIN!!” and “Holy SHIT, Haruuu!” and the booming echo of loud, happy laughter against pool tile. He looks forward at his hand – still flat on the pool wall – and reluctantly pulls it off … it’s so fucking infantile, but why does this moment have to end?

“Rin.” He slowly turns … and Haru’s so close, slim fingers holding the lane-line as naturally as a little kid pulling the blankets up to their chin all cozy in bed, sunk low in the water like he loves it too much to come out, too. Rin’s heart hurts at the sight as much as he’s tempted to make fun of him for his rampant eccentricity. The heart wins (as it should) as he drifts over, smiling back. 

“That was pretty fun, huh.” Not a question.

“Oh… I don’t think ‘fun’ is the word I’d use.” Haru’s smile is sorta devilish now – like someone who’s just had a very different cherry popped. And Rin’s suddenly just cackling in glee, that look is too much to take, and he’s floating forward to hug Haru around his narrow shoulders and kiss his forehead.

*

Sousuke’s place – nope, no, fucking scratch that – PENTHOUSE SUITE is as lavishly awesome as the lobby implied. More. ‘Cause that was handsome in this very generic way … while something about this place SCREAMS Yamazaki. Nope – whispers it in hushed, reverent tones that smell faintly like … sandlewood?

…to be honest, though, interior design is the last thing on Rin’s mind. He barely registers where they are, vaguely notes that they’ve trooped in together, Sousuke offering refreshments and being quietly turned down, nobody taking him up on the use of his palatial shower. No one’s even talking, beyond the barest-minimum informational exchanges necessary. Not that they have nothing to say. It’s more like … they’ve moved into a different part of the night, now, where it’s too late for words, or something.

Except for Sousuke, who cryptically tells them – “Come with me,” and they follow into this master bedroom that’s … well, that’s just fucking ridiculous. That’s made for fucking, basically. Rin thinks he’s been on a set or two like this; or, more accurately, THIS is what the “set designer” was going for when he tried for the “luxury bedroom” look. Rin doesn’t blame him for failing; he didn’t have Sousuke’s budget, that’s all.

And he’s so utterly ready, nothing could feel more right, or more-accurately, inevitable. He pauses at the threshold like some alt-universe bride and catches Makoto’s wrist. “What do you think…?” he asks quietly, like a wife asking her spouse his opinion about the car they’re about to buy, and the comparison threatens to bust him out in another round of (in this case disastrous) laughter.

“I think we deserve a little pleasure, for once,” Mako comes back, eyes glittering, and Rin’s surprised. Surprised, and so relieved he sorta feels like fainting, just a little. Makoto just said “sayonara and screw you” to this life, even if they are “off the clock,” and if he feels OK about it then Rin’s ready for anything.

…but again, it appears Sousuke may have other plans for them. He beckons them all over to the monster of a bed on a raised platform against a panoramic window-wall, pulling Haru along behind him in a funnily-intimate gesture, something a guy would do to get his wallflower date out on the dancefloor at prom. He invites Rin and Mako to climb on while he gets on from the other side with Haru, the little man shooting looks at him that are equal parts suspicion and curiosity. So it would appear he and Makoto aren’t the only ones in the dark, then.

They’re facing each other, echoes of the coffeeshop meeting sounding in his mind, but they’ve gone from table to bed, from feeling each other out to … ??? Rin aches to break the silence, or better to touch, to taste for truly the first time, but he can’t – it isn’t his house, and somehow in Sousuke’s house it feels like they need to play by Sousuke’s rules. At least to start.

“Haru’s absolutely right, I’ve watched you both, watched you a LOT. I bet I’ve seen everything you’ve done,” the man of the house is saying with some slightly-bitter dark humor. “And call me a fucking idiot, but it doesn’t seem right somehow to ‘use’ you guys the very first time we really meet.”

“You’re so old-fashioned, Sou,” Haru snorts automatically, like Sousuke does this thing to him where he can’t help but make smart-ass cracks, and Rin grins, sees Mako smile (the real kind). 

“Haru, you are a complete bastard,” Sousuke’s sighing, but HE’s smiling too, and Rin suddenly gets how they’ve all neatly fallen into the big man’s trap. “SO, instead, Haru and I have decided we’re going to keep it simple tonight and just give YOU a little show in return. There’s a catch, though – you’re just the audience. You don’t touch us, you don’t touch each other … and I actually have some, uh, aids to help you guys stick to that if you want.”

Rin – for the first time in ever – can’t dredge a measley-ass word up from his stupid larynx. Makoto’s saving them. “No, Sousuke, that – you don’t need to do that. We’ll be good.” And flipping a wide-eyed look over at Rin like 'oh GOD Rin what the hell did I just say?'

Haru doesn’t look much more copacetic. “Seriously, Sou? You want ME to put on a show for THEM. Yeah, I’m Mr. Showman, alright,” and is that NERVES Rin hears under the blasé exterior? Stage fright?

…and he gets absolutely-fucking zero chance to indulge in his bitch-fest as Sousuke must take that for consent, and he’s homing in, sorta rotating Haru out to face them like he’s a department store mannequin in a display window he’s trying to position just right. Haru’s eyes go wide at the change in scenery and wider as he comes to face them both, clumped together rather pathetically at the other side of the bed with wide eyes of their own. 

“C’mon, Haru. Let’s show these porn stars what a couple regular dudes can do,” Sousuke’s whispering in his ear, and Rin and Mako hear every word, and hot-damn if it isn’t ON.

Something shifts in Haru’s face, some almost deadly cool slides in, and he tilts back and says “Shirt” over his shoulder, like he’s a surgeon ordering clamps or something. Sousuke’s eager to comply, sliding his oversized hands under Haru’s absurd cartoon tee as he raises his arms and suddenly he’s bare-chested, slender and white and vulnerable among three big clothed men but seeming so powerful somehow, like he’s some sea-creature (…a selkie…?) that wandered in from the harbor. Probably here to eat their souls.

Sousuke extends a long finger, guides Haru’s fine-boned face back and then they’re watching the two kiss, sorta the reverse of the pooldeck, instead of cruelly bending Haru forward Haru’s leaning softly back, reaching up to him with his sharp profile and a hand that creeps around Sousuke’s neck, and Sousuke’s huge hands are whispering up to cup and fondle Haru’s pecs, almost like they’re tiny, perfect breasts with the pertest pink nipples.

And they’re rocking side to side, rhythmically, as their throats work, and they’re strangely quiet, but the visuals make up for the silence, and Rin’s vision is filled with white, and soft-brown, and mussed-black bleeding into spiky-black, and lines, lines, shifting, rocking LINES…

…and he doesn’t know if he can do this. ‘Cause he’s so hot, abdomen pulling and pulsing and heavy, he wants to scream. He has no idea how Mako is possibly surviving – he snaps a look next to him, away from the unmistakable show, and sees his poor sweet man skating on the edge of ruin. He fucking KNOWS it. He’s been reduced to sitting on his hands (Makoto always appreciated old-fashioned behavior-minders, chairs to make you sit up straight, that kind of thing), and seeing him like that, cross-legged in his white sweater and messy damp hair … he’s like a tiny boy watching the last schoolbus of the day pull away and leave him behind, and Rin’s heart aches.

“Screw this,” Rin hisses under his voice to him, as Mako starts and flips his gaze over. “I get the sentiment and it was very nice, but I don’t feel exploited – do you??”

Makoto’s very slow to answer, coming out of a deep sleep, a cold-medicine fog. “…n-no, Rin – that’s … that’s the LAST thing I feel.” Rin watches that familiar throat bob in a heavy swallow. “God, I don’t know if I can stand much more of this.”

Rin nods, decisively. It feels fucking fanTASTIC to have a course of action – as always.

He swiftly pulls at the hem of the sweater, and Mako gets the hint instantly, allows himself to be stripped bare-chested then lies back eagerly as Rin helps him shimmy his jeans off, his boxer-briefs. Totally non-sexual; they could be getting him ready to dump in an ice-bath to get a fever down. Rin pauses to almost clinically assess the state of him, and feels bizarrely like warning the other guys, maybe sending up a flare; because Makoto’s Orca is here in its fullest form, and Rin honestly can’t recall a sight quite like it before. 

Then Mako’s turning to him, zero-argument in his firm eyes, saying “Your turn,” and damn if Rin doesn’t get a particular thrill to see the Authoritative Face here in all its glory, all for … for THEM. So he smiles, and compliantly raises his own arms to let Mako lift his big black sweater, and this time the stripping activity is just as efficient but far more potent, Rin having the oddest feeling Makoto’s taking pieces of himself away with each garment, leaving him more and more vulnerable and raw and needy – and THAT makes zero fucking sense, ‘cause no one’s seen him nude more often than Mako.

So they turn, flushed and naked and fucking READY, to face their other halves … and find that Rin and Mako apparently have become the show while they’ve (naughtily) broken the no-touch rule. Haru and Sousuke haven’t gotten much further, both men facing them with Haru sitting in Sousuke’s lap. It’s a provoking image – that fucking size difference, Rin hates the thrill it sends through him, what it says about him and what he must really feel about power and traditional gender roles and all that. It’s the contrast, the dumb visual of “this giant hulky guy has this willowy little guy right where he wants him” butting up against the indisputable reality that this is HARU we’re talking about. Sousuke’s a tough-ass motherfucker it seems… yet Haru’s some kind of silicon-based alien life-form impervious to pain.

Or something.

And. They’ve also stripped in the meantime – and somehow, the gentle tan of Sousuke’s cascading muscles folding over and around Haru’s smooth paleness blurs into a sculpture in front of them, maybe a giant pastry, they’re like a huge fucking cream-puff that Rin wants to eat … right … up.

The alien life-form’s stretching, lazily, long lean freestyle-muscles shifting smoothly over each other then relaxing. He smiles over at them – it lights up his rose-tinted face in a way Rin almost can’t look at – then cranes up to look at Sousuke again. “Well, Sou, looks like your little game-experiment-thing was an epic fail – our dear boys couldn’t even make it through to the nudity part before they started breaking the rules.” He flicks Sousuke’s nose; Sousuke’s face does a nuclear mushroom-cloud impression. “So, what’re you gonna do about it?”

“No more games. No more rules,” he answers unexpectedly, and they’re both tipping forward like Sousuke’s gonna somersault them, but he’s coming up short and pulling Haru’s ass up in prime placement. Diving down with utter conviction, eyes falling shut as his face sinks between the soft-looking heart-shape … and Haru ducks his head in his folded arms for a moment, so all they see is a haystack of crazy-mussed black. As Sousuke works in him – deeply, almost aggressively – Haru struggles up and seeks them out, and Rin could almost come at seeing this cool thing come apart, piece by piece, the crease between his perfect eyebrows as Sousuke stretches him, the sweat starting to bead his temples, the shallow breaths.

“…please,” he finally gets out. “Please join us,” like they’re at the club and Haru wants to play doubles tennis. Rin’s embarrassed at how much he appreciates it, how many fucking times have he and Makoto done this and when has anyone ever said that to them?

Rin trades a look with Mako – last chance, the look says – and Makoto’s fucking radiating pure sunbeams, or some shit. So he leans in to kiss him deeply, and they slide across the comforter to the scene in progress before them. 

Rin watches with interest as Mako crawls behind Sousuke, notes how well their forms match up as he crouches behind him, gently whispers his hands up and down Sousuke’s sides. Tilts his head to suck softly on his neck even as he’s nose-deep in Haru; and as Sousuke pauses in some sort of surprise or maybe concern, husks in his ear, “It’s alright, Sousuke; you deserve to feel good, too.”

And as they – magically, through that MakoTouch – pick up their soft movement again, Rin turns his attention to the smaller man bent under them, stretching his spine in waves of lazy sensation. “…Riiiin,” comes floating out from the cave of Haru’s arms; and is THAT really Haru’s voice? That rough, ragged thing? “…can I … can I touch you…?”

And Rin knows that old grade-school cliché, sure, there are no stupid questions, but damn if that isn’t maybe the dumbest question he’s ever heard ever in the entirety of his life.

He takes a breath that just shouldn’t be this shaky. “Sure, baby. Whatever you like,” he says hurriedly, then stumbles onto his knees to face the long lean elegant spine and perfect inverted-heart and rimming-Sousuke and softly-massaging-Mako…

Haru raises himself on his own shaky elbows, smiles as he turns his big blues up, and Rin can’t take the tenderness, pushing the black mess to the side and away from Haru’s face, out of his eyes so he can see him properly. Haru’s doing the funniest thing, Rin would almost call it the sweetest thing, he’s using just the very tips of his fingers to massage circles in the tops of Rin’s thighs, the sensation such a little thing but somehow narrowing all his concentration to that one smallest part of him. He leans forward and adds his little lips, sucking there gently, and Rin can’t wait anymore and lets his hands take their place in Haru’s hair, where they’ve wanted to be all night. Slides them in, deep and soft and warm.

Somewhere in front of him he hears Mako quietly asking Sousuke: “Lube and condoms?” and crawling off to get them like the damn Eagle Scout he is. Sousuke’s pulling back and sitting up, just watching him and Haru, eyes somehow brighter than makes sense given the low-light of his bedroom. Slowly working his cock, slick and heavy and thick.

Rin … Rin simply can’t help it. Maybe he was born this way. “So … what’s the plan, Stan?” he asks Sousuke, way more breathlessly than he intends, as he feels the first ring of wet heat descend around his own cock – “…ahhh! Haru!”

“We give Haru all the pleasure he deserves, that he’s been so cruelly deprived of all his virgin life,” Sousuke answers as Mako returns, deferentially and respectfully handing the stuff to him. “And one wonders how getting blown by him falls into THAT category, Matsuoka.”

“Hey! I didn’t know the fucking rules, so sue me! Plus he’s the one who asked to do it to ME. Maybe it’s been his undying wish to give me a blowjob all this time, you wanna … uhhh … d-deny him that?” he gets out as the mussed head in his lap has begun to gently pullll at the very tip, pull and suck, again and again, and Rin feels like his skin may be turning inside out. If this is this the guy’s technique as a newbie, Rin has high praise for beginners’ luck.

Makoto’s smiling at Sousuke again, and asking if he’d like a hand getting prepped, and Rin’s darkly amused through his haze of distraction to watch Sousuke’s multitasking meet some sort of limit. “Thanks, I’m good,” he’s saying gruffly, unrolling a condom onto himself, adding more lube. Then he’s settling back in behind Haru, lining up…

…and God, God, they’re about to fucking spitroast Nanase Haruka.

Nanase Haruka, who quits his diligent movement on Rin as Sousuke pushes in, slowly, and Rin suddenly feels around to grab Haru’s hand on the comforter, moved by some need he doesn’t understand. “Mako! Get over here,” he hisses, and Makoto comes unquestioning, settles next to them and reaches through to gently grasp Haru’s cock.

“Mmmph!” Rin feels around his cock, in surprise rather than alarm (he reads in the firm-yet-calm grip of Haru’s hand on his), and Rin glances up to find their convoluted little sculpture has made its way to its first rest point … and apparently everyone’s okay.

Rin meets eyes with Sousuke before him, nods (like he’s some bizarre translator for the incapacitated Haru), swivels to nod to Mako. Sousuke shifts, settles his knees more-firmly into the mattress, reinforces his grip on Haru’s narrow hips. “Gonna move now,” he says quietly, “Squeeze Rin’s hand if you need me to stop.” He pauses, and then, “…you’re so beautiful, Haru. Be our beautiful boy, okay?”

And they’re off, some teeter-totter or glider at the playground where every piece feeds into the next, and Sousuke’s pushing deep into the cool geometry of Haru, and the angles shift, hips cant into Mako’s waiting hand, hot firm mouth squeezes around Rin’s ache, and he’s rubbing a thumb through Haru’s softest hair, and his other thumb against the back of Haru’s hand. And Sousuke’s moaning as he dives into Haru, and Makoto’s moaning as he times his strokes of himself perfectly to those he’s giving Haru, and Rin’s moaning as the ring of heat teases him with such relentless, rhythmic pressure. And Haru…

…Haru’s somehow present in ALL of this, how can he be, but he’s undulating his spine in a way Rin recognizes instantly from aeons in the pool doing dolphin kicks, and he’d smile if he weren’t so fucking beside himself. Just – rolling it back to meet Sousuke’s just-this-side-of-punishing thrusts, like his body’s saying 'oh yeah, that all you got?' and trying for THAT little-bit more. And he’s still teasing Rin with his fingertips – on his upper thighs, the side of his ass, dancing around the base of his cock, squeezing firmly when Rin throws his head and gasps “…close –”

And Rin sorta fucking loves him for it. ‘Cause he doesn’t wanna be the first guy to leave this party.

But Sousuke’s deciding that for them, apparently – like a bouncer at closing time, he’s flicking the lights and rounding them up, if his sudden shift into overdrive is any indicator. Like Haru doesn’t want him left behind, he’s fully adding his hand to Rin’s base now, stroking firmly up with strong fingers as his head is almost brutally forced into Rin’s lap, again and again. And that’s all Rin can do as the heat finally overtakes him.

“…oh, oh GOD Haru, coming for real now – !” And Haru’s pulling off for air as Rin comes in hot spurts into his hair, over his face – and the sight is completely ridiculous in its wrongness AND rightness. “Ah, Haru, fuck I’m so sorry!”

Mouth free, Haru’s completely out-of-breath gasping as Sousuke hauls him upright, into his lap, pulls him tight against his chest as he fucks into him viciously. Groaning, low, in time, face completely hidden in Haru’s Einstein-hair.

And Rin fixates on HIS man, as Mako kneels before Haru, joining them together with a hand on each of them, still in perfect fucking time, and the uncanny impression hits that Makoto isn’t on a bed, in a big ol’ mess of a ridiculous impromptu orgy. He’s at the shrine, kneeling at an altar, ribbons of incense clouding his face as his eyes go distant in a prayer…

…and Rin curses his fucking stupid sentimentality as he sprawls taking in the totally filthy climax of their … little experiment in front of him, as Haru cries out and arcs and Mako follows along behind, as Sousuke finishes and folds them both back over, shaking, back to where this whole stupid thing started.

There’s just wordless panting for a while, slowly unraveling into softer breathing where they’re all clumped together in a confusing sticky human jumble. Rin’s oddly proud to be the first to move, like he deserves a gold star for productivity or maybe some honorary leadership role in this completely random collective. He pushes himself to his side and peeks down. 

“Hey,” he whispers, running a palm down Makoto’s back. He ended up curled in a big comma on his side around the little tucked-in ball that’s Haru, Sousuke folded mostly over Haru’s back on the other side where they landed when Sousuke finished. The yin-yangy puppy-pile is shifting and “mmm…”ing and then Makoto’s swinging around to lay on his side, open to Rin with his head propped on an elbow. 

And Rin’s breath catches despite what should be the (ironic as hell) familiarity of the situation, ‘cause seeing Mako post-coitus – even Mako-post-multiple-dude-coitus – has become a VERY comfortable old-hat to Rin. But this… this is new, this is Makoto utterly relaxed, sated, satisfied, just sorta OK in his skin. It’s the way he leans lazily into that propped hand, almost cheeky, it’s the way his broad shoulders have settled further down than Rin’s ever seen them. It’s in the lines of his body, in ALL his body-language, these guys are essentially strangers but his bonelessness says to Rin “I’m with family now; aren’t you?” Rin, being Rin, has to linger at his spent cock for a few seconds too (not doing so would be a damn sin) and there’s something in his unselfconsciousness over that, too. Like it’s just another part of him. 

And all HE got was a handjob, and a self-delivered one at that. But Mako always was a give-rather-than-receive sorta guy. And all they had was time.

“…like what you see?” Mako asks him flirtily, squinting and giving him a very-passable duck-face.

“Ugh. I will gladly give you a wake-up blowjob every morning if you promise to NEVER do a duck-face again. Fucking terrifying,” he says wide-eyed, then can’t stand it anymore and half-dives half-falls into him. Bless him, Makoto’s just too good and catches him with his free arm, rolls Rin over on top and kicks their legs onto the Sou and Haru lumps next to them. A bass and a baritone grunt come back.

“You don’t like my duck-face?” Mako manages to look crestfallen under him, like that’s something he was practicing maybe for his Instagram and Rin’s just killed his dream of finding his inner fourteen-year-old girl, or something.

“Sorry, babe. Needs work. We can probably help you, something tells me this is a painfully honest crew here.” Experimentally, Rin lifts both legs and drops them again, hard, into the too-quiet lumps behind them and gets a “Jesus FUCK, Rin,” which is way more satisfying. “Get your lazy and manipulative asses up, man. Just ‘cause you were technically doing most of the work there doesn’t mean you get to like check-out before we decide what’s next. First group meeting!”

Sousuke. “Whose idea was this again?” Voice like he’s considering his life choices. Too late for THAT, Yamazaki-san, Rin thinks smugly.

Rin’s legs tumble over as there’s shifting and vacating behind them, and then he and Makoto – who’ve rolled side-by-side on their stomachs with their chins in their hands like something out of a teenage-girl sleepover – get Haru easing somewhat-painfully out of bed, bending slowly over to lay his hands to the hardwood (!) floor, coming back up to reach as high as he can for the vaulted ceiling, release with the most-satisfied “…ahhh…” he couldn’t really make as they fucked him, as occupied as he was. Rin thinks they’ll have to remedy that. Soon.

He shoots a bleary blue gaze over a creamy shoulder, Rin’s eye helpless to avoid the inevitable trip down his streamlined back, running over the firm circles of his ass, his long legs as he takes a step to leave. “I’ll make this easy for ya, Rin. Here’s the agenda. Shower. Snack, I’ll make. Bed.” He heads for a door on the far side of the huge suite. Calls back, “…takers?”

They don’t need a group-vote.

***

…anybody else need a big ol’ coffee or some other sustenance after all those WORDS?? Lord, I wish the tech was at that Star Trekky point so I could send you one, in thanks for making it here with me ;D

I also am intrigued by the idea put forth by the fantabulous peekapika, that this place is often way too sexual (sorry to misquote there!), and it’s fine to have characters or fics not focus on sex. I completely agree; while the events of this chap were inevitable IMO, this OT4 is about much more than sex. As we shall see! ALSO, I lifted the basic plot of her amazing fic Desperate Measures for Haru’s book about the stripper – if you haven’t read that, DO. So sorry not to be able to link directly here :/

Thanks too to the lovely and vivacious IAmNotCapableOfInventingACleverUsername for the headcanon I liberally stole/borrowed for Sou’s “game,” forcing the boys to look, don’t touch. And we all saw how well THAT worked lol…


	25. Take this job and SHOVE it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOO! No, this fic is not dead! :DDD
> 
> It is SUCH a pleasure to be back with you all (after a lovely detour into Omegaverse and RinHaru friendship for 2 lovely ladies <3). This chap is dedicated to all the folks who aren't into OT4 or the ships here but who gave this fic a try anyway, and to the nonnative speakers who SOMEHOW muddle through my crazy English, and to anyone else who doesn't know how they ended up here but somehow is along for the trip...
> 
> ...I am HONORED to have you <333

Sousuke’s up early, even for him – dawn is just kissing the window sheers, the daily parade of Tokyo below hasn’t even begun to drift up. Given how late they were all awake, their admirably task-oriented group shower devolving into a slow, lazy four-way makeout that was like stoned chaos but also something out of Sousuke’s sweetest dreams, he should be totally exhausted. Ready to bite something, his sister once labelled the mood he’d get in when sleep-deprived, and damn that was accurate.

But no, he’s … so, weirdly rested, and not just rested, energized. He’s the first in their pile to stir – the beautiful anarchy in the bathroom (everyone … somehow … getting a mouthful, a handful, an arm-around someone else) resolved overnight into something unsurprisingly symmetric, peaceful, predictable. Retrograde, even with no women involved in their grand arrangement. He disentangles himself with the utmost care from where he’s spooned around Haru, pushes back to sit silently on his heels in the dimness of his room and gaze down.

He and Makoto – consciously or no – possessively held onto their Haru and Rin in the night, shielded them and turned their smaller bodies into the center of the bed where they’d be “safer,” wrapped protective arms around them as they spooned. Makoto’s face is completely hidden from sight, tucked away in Rin’s nape, his powerful body paradoxically seeming even more powerful in this totally-relaxed state. A sleeping lion. And Haru and Rin – like some sort of human nesting dolls – form an “inner circle” in the middle of the bed, Rin’s arms thrown carelessly over Haru, a hand smooshing his cheek and forcing him to make little fish-lips, one of Haru’s long lower legs stretched out of his tight curl to tangle between Rin’s.

It makes Sousuke’s heart hurt to see such unforced compatibility. Such a quiet and … and lovely sight.

Feeling as if a push off the bed could float him away – just a little – Sousuke gets up carefully, pads to the whisper-quiet curtain mechanism and clicks the button to close the heavy drapes. Something he forgot last night in his TOTALLY NOT ROUTINE bedtime routine, after they downed the – yes, fabulous – savory yogurt shakes Haru whipped up for them, after Rin’s nasty remarks about what said shakes looked like and their little snipe war and Makoto’s disappointed sigh (and wink to Sousuke) and Sousuke laughed and laughed and was in HEAVEN.

So, yeah, a lot of the usual stuff got missed last night. Sousuke couldn’t care less.

He knows the Sleeping Beauties will appreciate not being awakened by the sunrise though, so he smiles to himself, catches a robe and a pair of house slippers from the walk-in closet, and slips out.

He’s stretched out on one of the living room couches idly flipping through his tablet – and he doesn’t even feel like looking at anything in particular, not his email, not the news. He’s just killing time until they wake up; and the lightness in him that he awoke with hasn’t gone away, this mysterious anticipation. What he knee-jerk calls “that Christmas-morning feeling” when writing then has to circle-back in edits to redo, because of the creaky-old cliché-ness and also the overt Westernness. Something he’s rarely felt in his life … something he percolated with that first afternoon waking up from his romp with Haru, bursting with almost too much energy and setting up their shared workspace and just so ready to create with him.

And he wonders and hopes as that same feeling seizes his whole body now …

There’s a soft shuffling and he glances up to see Rin, Haru peeping behind, creeping down the short hall to the great room. He blinks back to the here and now.

“Shut the door, if Makoto’s still out,” he calls quietly.

“Haru already took care of it. Dude’s like got MAKODAR hardwired. Creepy,” Rin says, shooting wide eyes over at Sousuke as he heads straight for the kitchen and starts opening cabinets at random. Apparently this is a thing he does. “…coffee?”

“Made. Mugs above the dishwasher.” He pauses, adds, “Dark-dark roast.”

“…like your soul,” Haru’s cooing at him suddenly, almost materializing from out of nowhere next to the couch with a tiny smile as he bends in half, grabs Sousuke’s cheeks between cool hands and kisses him softly on the lips. Sousuke makes no move to argue, just smiles crookedly back; tosses the tablet away and reaches out to rest his hands on Haru’s (naked) hips.

“You OK?” he asks Haru, quietly; he gets an eyeroll back, but it’s paired with that smile, so he knows the answer is yes.

“Oh, I forgot. Put some damn clothes on, you damn hippie. This ain’t Woodstock, ya know. People have to LOOK at you and like share space with you and maybe prepare food!” Rin’s whisper-yelling at Haru as he pours three mugs of coffee at the island. To Sousuke, genuinely sounding concerned: “Does he just hang-around naked like that?”

Sousuke smiles to himself, at the warehouses of quirks and facts and preferences and anecdotes and kinks and just-everything they have yet to learn about each other. About which of these he can get the jump on Haru by sharing first.

Sighing, he sits up, lets both hands descend slowly over the unparalleled glory that is Haru’s ass (…what parabolic equation would express THIS curve? he thinks indulgently) before he gives it a light spank. Haru raises an eyebrow and drifts back towards the bedroom.

“Well, I guess you could say he doesn’t have any issues with nudity,” Sousuke replies, standing and feeling down to the last vertebra in his hips as he stretches. He ambles to the island where the mugs are waiting and where Rin’s busily chopping up some fruit he’d forgotten he had in his fridge. “You’ll get used to it.”

“…not bloody likely, man. Not that I’m, like, saying it’s BAD, mind!” He waggles his fine brows, and Sousuke thinks, dear God I’m here with Groucho Marx.

...but a BEAUTIFUL Groucho Marx – Rin back in his big, frayed black sweater, his black jeans, he’s like the Angel of Death or just the Angel of Goth but he’s crackling with this hyper, live-wire energy as he bustles, sheering strips of spiky skin off a pineapple with practiced ease. Handling the knife with offhand confidence and grace.

“You work in a restaurant? Before – uh, you know,” he says, lamely.

“I’ve worked a LOT of places. Honey, you name it, I probably DONE it. Some of ‘em you don’t wanna know. Though you already got the big conversation stopper,” Rin says with good humor, pointing the butcher knife at him like a sassy Norman Bates … but there’s this determined set to his pretty face.

“You were in the Prime Minister’s cabinet?”

Sousuke gets a handful of pineapple skin thrown at him for that, and he just laughs as he goes around scooping the bits up.

“Oh, Secretary of LOVE, baby! That’s me! Pffft. No, I’ve basically done nothing of any usefulness to anybody.” Rin swiftly dumps the pineapple chunks in a waiting bowl and moves to a carton of strawberries, picking up a paring knife. “I’ve been an OK big brother. Does that count?”

Sousuke quietly watches Rin’s easy movements as he hulls the berries, the red in his hands echoing the red-red-red of him. The vibrancy, the life, the energy, the charisma. The humor. How the fuck does he translate that incoherent and completely high-school feeling to words – without sounding incoherent and high-school?

“I … don’t know that it makes a damn difference what jobs we have. You know what I did before I started getting paid obscene amounts of money to write smut?”

Rin doesn’t answer, keeps busily working away, but Sousuke gets the feeling he’s listening intently, is tuned into him. Out of the corner of his eye he notices Haru, absolutely swimming in one of his bathrobes, but he doesn’t come into the kitchen, just lingers against the wall.

“Well, I worked my dad’s fishing boat day-in, day-out, whenever I could get breaks from school and then graduated early so I could help full time. Hardest job I’ll ever do – I’d fall asleep before my head would even hit the pillow. And shit, we didn’t do some sexy fish. You know what our business was?”

“Ass-fish.”

“Wrong. No such thing. I said, no sexy fish. Hagfish.”

Haru apparently can’t resist interjecting now that the subject is fish. “Oh, you must’ve been up to your elbows in slime.”

“I bathed in slime. My middle NAME was slime. I had slime in places slime never should be. I … smelled … so … bad I have NO idea how anybody agreed to get intimate with me ever again.”

Apparently his truly amateur attempt at a cheer-up/reassurance job is working, because Rin is hanging off the island honking laughter with zero offhand confidence and grace, whacking it in glee. Sousuke glances over at Haru (who is too damn adorable in his robe, he should live in it) and he’s tucking his arms into his sleeves like a shaolin monk and smiling cryptically.

“Ha…Haru. Confirm. Sousuke smells like a stinky demon ass-fish, true or false,” Rin gasps from the floor when he can talk again.

“No such thing,” Sousuke repeats.

“Ohhh … let’s say, certain – activities, with Sou … I’ve gotten mysteriously, hungry. And now I finally get why!” Haru says in a “Eureka!” tone like he’s finally solving an old mystery that’s been bothering him, and his eyes dance, and Sousuke stalks over and grabs him menacingly around the waist.

“C’mere, fish-boy,” he growls, carrying him carefully over to the island and dumping him on a stool, and Haru serenely reaches for one of the mugs of coffee not missing a beat.

Rin drags himself up finally to join them and his eyes dance too – and Sousuke’s heart hurts again for the curious way he feels it stretching … like he’s the Grinch who stole  
Christmas, and it’s growing to a new size to accommodate all the love that’s being thrown at it.

“Thanks for the Yamazaki info, man,” Rin tells Haru. “Bros for life. I’d fist-bump ya but I’m all sticky and stuff. So I think I get your gist, Sousuke. We aren’t what we do, but instead we are what we … eat?” And the cocky bastard selects a berry from the bowl and places it between his lips, leaning onto the island and invitation beaming out of his crimson eyes like neon lights on the Ginza.

I’m about to kiss Rob Miller, Sousuke thinks coherently.

So he mirrors Rin and leans onto his elbows from the opposite side of the island, sliding his lips around the curves of the berry as his softly turns his head, and Rin just stays still. Eyes gleaming with amusement, totally not giving him an inch, the little fucker.

So he raises the stakes slightly, sliding his hands up and into Rin’s loose hair –

And has a second to think, suddenly, oh, wow that’s so SOFT –

And Rin bites into the berry in their mouths, and all he feels is sweetness, and tart, and such softness, slipping strand by strand through his hands and moving gently against his lips, and such juiciness – their mouths flooded with saliva perked-up by the taste and sliding back and forth and Rin – smoothly, professionally – moves with him. He’s holding Sousuke’s chin now – he dimly notes the wiry fingers light against his skin – and how can such a nothing touch feel so electric?

“….mmm-mmm….! Oh, Sousuke. Not too bad at all,” Rin manages as he pulls away, quickly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, face flushed in a way Sousuke knows he could never, never get tired of seeing on that man’s impossibly-high cheekbones. Rin glances immediately over to Haru with a rakish grin and Sousuke wonders who that kiss was for – was it for Rin, selfishly? Sousuke? Or for Haru, to get him jealous, or maybe more simply (more … purely?) to turn him on as much as them? Sousuke feels dazed – stupid – with the branching paths of new possibilities every new little action sparks.

Apparently there are NO “little actions” anymore … unless he wants to throw all his ponderous thinking out the window and just feel. And maybe that would be OK, too…though, he can’t stop himself from a stab of something hot and uncomfortable passing through him at kissing someone else in front of Haru. And suddenly wants to die laughing at himself – because apparently, for the very first time in his fucking life, he’s experienced a monogamous thought.

Glory, glory Halleluia – it only took him thirty years…

“So what did you think?” Haru asks Rin conversationally, sipping coffee so civilized like he’s at his coffeeshop in one of his patented I-dressed-in-the-dark-hungover outfits, and not swinging his feet at Sousuke’s island in Sousuke’s terribly-oversized bathrobe like a little kid. Apparently Haru isn’t stabbed with the same writhing ambiguous feelings Sousuke is as they enter into the realities of this whole … freelove thing … even though he did have his mouth around the guy’s cock a bare six hours ago…

“Hmmm. Well, I didn’t get a chance to take him for a test-drive last night because SOMEBODY doesn’t like to share their toys, so, yeah. That was … nice. And I’ve, ya know, been around. So he should be flattered.” Rin snags the third coffee for himself, and no, they are NOT discussing his fucking kissing ability, discussing him, right here in front of him. “He could work on his assertiveness, though. Didn’t you say he had a bunch of experience too?”

“I didn’t. But he has. Don’t know how much of that has been kissing, though –”

“I’d like to remind you both that I’m sitting right here in front of you, if you’d like to kindly shut the fuck up. Thank you,” Sousuke walks over them, starting to get slightly miffed. They just look at him innocently – and he’s hit hard by how similar they seem, even with their extreme night-and-day tonal differences. Like two little fairies he was stupid enough to let in, or maybe two elves (two aliens??). Laughing and snarking away at his expense.

He guesses it’s probably worth it.

Haru leans over and choosily picks out half-a-dozen pineapple chunks. “Ah – Makoto was saying something about cats when I was in there getting the robe. Do you guys need to get back to feed them?”

Rin blinks at him for a beat, then bursts into delighted laughter, going so far as to come around the island and throw an arm around Haru’s shoulders and cuddle their heads together in his joy.

“Do you mind,” Haru grumbles.

“Oh, God, that is so funny! Oh! No, we’re all good, no cats are gonna starve today. Mako’s a sleep-talker – very handy, actually.” He releases Haru – reluctantly, Sousuke thinks – and returns to the other side of the island, resting his chin in his hands. Sousuke scoops out some fruit and is struck again by the simple explosion it makes in his mouth, how alive it is.

Am I high…? he thinks half-seriously.

“So the cutest thing about that is he’s dreaming about the strays that he used to stop and pet, around his house when we were kids. We’re talking ghost-cats, man.”

“How sad,” Haru says, face unexpectedly falling (clashing with his pineapple-stuffed cheeks).

“Oh dear GOD you two. Am I dating a couple of chicks now?? Isn’t that why I’m gay, so that I can date dudes?” Sousuke asks rhetorically and uselessly, but the rampant whimsy in the room is starting to make him feel outnumbered … and he didn’t think Haru was particularly like that. Rin must bring some weird … teenage … thing out in him. He finds himself itching for Makoto to get his ass up.

It gets worse.

“Ahhh … Sou, you’re dating us… Oh, I just love to hear you say it,” Rin drawls, and he makes it sound like caramelized BUTTER, and he’s sliding around the island to torment Sousuke now, spinning him lazily to face him on his bar stool…

…climbing up into Sousuke’s lap…

…wrapping both arms leisurely around his neck…

…ducking slowly in for another, inevitable kiss.

Sousuke’s so far deep-down he’s wondering if the bathrobe was the smartest choice this morning – Rin grinning into his lips as he starts to rock against him – when Makoto calls as he enters the room, “…why didn’t anyone wake me?”

Rin pulls back like somebody just shocked him, face uncertain. Sousuke carefully drops a foot to spin them so they can face the new arrival, blinking sleepily in his white sweater and jeans, hair a total, artful mess. Haru’s instantly hopping off the stool and beelining to the coffeemaker like a barista, and that’s almost as bizarre as … well, as everything else so far today.

“You were sleeping so peacefully. I just couldn’t,” Haru says almost apologetically as he finds a fourth mug (this one a particularly-memorable gag gift from Sei, Sousuke sees, that has a ceramic cock-and-balls curved around perfectly to form the handle, and “FILL ME UP WITH SOMETHING HOT!” screaming on the side). Doesn’t bat an eye as he takes the mug’s advice, then reaches over to the back of the counter, dumps in two giant scoops of sugar from the line of dry-good tins along the wall. Turns back and holds the obscene and sweet beverage out to him.

Speechless, Makoto comes over and accepts it; eyes unabashedly drinking in the surreal and ridiculously-appealing vision of Haru drowning in his robe, face so serious and honest. They watch from the island as Makoto and Haru have another of those odd, still moments, Makoto gently touching Haru’s shoulder, face the picture of concern.

“You OK?” he asks Haru softly, and Sousuke almost tells him to get his own lines. But he’s weirdly pleased to see Haru’s no-happier to have Makoto ask him than to have Sousuke.

“I’m fine,” he huffs as Makoto just smiles, relieved and unpeturbed.

The big brunette turns, sipping gingerly from the totally-inappropriate mug, and catches his first good look at Rin, snugged so deeply in Sousuke’s lap it’s like they’re a couple of puzzle pieces, at Rin’s flush, Sousuke’s careful poker face.

He gently raises his eyebrows.

“Hi,” Rin says awkwardly.

“Hi. A little … early-morning delight?” Makoto asks casually, smirking as he lowers the mug – then actually gets a look at the thing and LOSES it.

And it’s good he didn’t have a mouthful of coffee, because he would’ve either given them all a hot-coffee-shower or needed the Heimlich maneuver, and he’s helplessly leaning on Haru’s shoulder as he wheezes, trying to get these GIGGLES under control. And it’s just about the most adorable-sounding thing Sousuke thinks he’s heard in his entire life.

Haru’s frowning hard. “Do you have asthma?” he demands like a school nurse. Turns to him and Rin. “Does he have asthma? Listen to that wheeze. That is not normal.”

Now Rin’s laughing, sprawled against his chest and guffawing gracelessly. “OmiGOD you two are like separated at birth or something! What the fuck! What are you both, 700 years old??” And the former/current porn actors ride out their laugh-fits, and as they struggle to breathe Haru and Sousuke hold them up bodily, frowning and bemused (respectively).

*

If anyone had given him the choice, Makoto would’ve been delighted to stay in that bed with these guys all day, all night. And … not even having sex – though, of course, if the opportunity presented itself he would definitely not turn it down. Not in this surreal new reality (surreality…?) he and Rin were suddenly living in, this far too-good-to-be-true new … thing. He was tempted to sneak around Sousuke’s plush pad surreptiously looking for hidden cameras, for the game show his inner cynic insisted they were starring in.

But even as it appears the day’s plans involve actual vertical activity, Makoto’s overjoyed just talking, bullshitting, continuing to get to know each other, uncovering the little layers any strangers wrap themselves in but especially true for guys living in Japan. Every little new nugget of information he gleans about either Haru or Sousuke as the morning flies by feels like a victory, every moment of real intimacy widens his smile just a little more, makes his heart beat a little faster. After he stumbled out of bed – greeted by Rin getting … comfortable and the perfect cup of coffee from Haru – Sousuke ended up cooking them a real breakfast, standing over his grill frying up eggs Western-style, Haru getting him to put on an apron over his bathrobe just by calling him a savage.

They sprawl across the living room couches to eat like – yeah – a bunch of savages, or maybe ancient Romans, Makoto gushing with praise for Sousuke’s cooking, Rin just moaning incoherently. Haru’s quiet but seems totally content, bare legs up in Sousuke’s lap, daintily mopping yolk with a piece of toast.

“…so, last night, huh!” Makoto finds himself blurting in a comfortable lull, and as three faces turn curiously to him he wishes his plate had been poisoned so he could die quickly and (hopefully) painlessly.

“Yes, last night happened,” Sousuke says noncommittally.

“…and it was wonderful,” Rin says indulgently, leaning into him like a newlywed and shoving a piece of his own toast in Makoto’s mouth. Haru scoffs with what sounds like a cross between disgust and dark amusement.

“No, I think it WAS wonderful!” Makoto’s continuing before he knows it – and oh, dear GOD, he can talk, what the fuck is WRONG with him?? And he’s blundering on – “It was just – just such an honor and privilege, I mean we – Rin and I – do this kind of thing a lot but we never have someone wanting to do it because they care about us. Because they wanted to just relax and enjoy it together – which, which I so hope everyone did, Sousuke I hope I wasn’t on you too much, Haru I hope you enjoyed your orgasm –”

Rin, bless him, is putting a hand over his mouth like he’s having some sort of episode – which, though he means every word from the bottom of his heart, he supposes he is. He slowly relaxes his hands on his thighs and Rin catches his drift, frees his mouth with a nod.

“All good?” he asks Makoto with a crick in his eyebrows.

“All good,” he confirms with a little kiss on Rin’s soft cheek, which gets him brushing Makoto off with an “oh, stahp...”

Then Haru’s piping up from his corner of the other couch, staring over at him and Rin with all the intensity of the coffeeshop – and Makoto suddenly gets it, this IS the coffeeshop, Part Two. His second Statement of Intent, with infinitely higher stakes.

“This isn’t the end, you know. Last night was a beginning – if you guys want it to be, of course. You can’t possibly know somebody from one swim, one night, one fuck. And I want to. ‘Cause I’m sorry to sound like a whiny bitch, but I sorta feel a little like I got cheated out of the friend and love lottery with a few really good exceptions, and dammit, I’d like to try to make up for some lost time, please. If that’s not too much trouble,” and his voice is papered with irony – Haru’s defense mechanism, he knows – and his unreal eyes glitter unexpectedly in the bright sunlight of the room. But Makoto isn’t positive if it’s tears, fierceness, or a little of both.

No one speaks for a long minute, Sousuke stroking Haru’s ankles in small sweeps of his thumbs. Their host finally takes a deep breath. “So – what’s on tap for today, gentlemen?” he asks, sending a pointed look around (did … did I ever really notice how totally unusual his eyes are…? Makoto wonders) and saving his last pass for Haru.

Makoto stretches his arms wide across the back of the couch – his heart somehow lighter, than even five minutes ago, in a way he couldn’t put words to if he tried. “Ah, honestly? I’m just so damn thrilled to be here with you all, in this place, unemployed, that I’d be ecstatic doing anything. Really. I don’t know if I could be happier.” It takes him a few beats – then he realizes what he’d just said and what a complete and utter asshole he is –

“Rin,” he says hurriedly, turning to him so quickly he basically falls into him, “Rin, God, I’m such a prick, I’m so sorry to rub it in like that…”

…but to his pleased surprise, Rin just smiles at him – peacefully – and since when did Rin ever do anything “peacefully”?? Leans in to knock their shoulders amicably together. Maybe even looks a little … smug?

“Funny you should say that. So I actually have our – well, our whole day sorta … planned. I hope that’s OK with everybody. But trust me, you will NOT be disappointed.” He bites into a piece of toast with relish – blatantly showing off the teeth – and Makoto just blinks mutely at him, feeling like he should know what’s going on… But all he gets in his mind’s eye is a nebulous fog. And Sousuke and Haru don’t look any smarter over on the other couch.

“We are NOT getting Brazilians,” Haru says, voice death.

…so that’s how they find themselves at a chi-chi fancy-dresswear rental shop in Sousuke’s neighborhood an hour later, Sousuke a total man in his element in a cashmere sweater and soft jeans, he and Rin more-or-less blending in yesterday’s clothes.

Haru, though.

Haru’s essentially reenacting the Beverly Hills shopping scene from "Pretty Woman" where Julia Roberts makes a hot-mess ass of herself in her hooker-wear. Haru’s version is of course yesterday’s crazy-sleepshirt-and-legging ensemble, and with the Army coat and flip-flops (and some freakishly-huge sunglasses he produced from someplace) he looks utterly insane.

And unlike Julia, like he couldn’t give less of a shit.

Makoto’s helplessly grinning like a kid reading manga under his desk in detention, just adoring this guy’s … freedom. When has HE ever been free like that?? Ever, in his entire way-too-cautious life? He suddenly seizes on a hypothetical question from out of nowhere: if Haru’d been in the same predicament as he and Rin, forced to do porn to pay the bills (and he firmly denies himself the visual pleasure of thinking of that idea any further), would HE have pathetically lied to his family like they had? Or would he have been totally open and matter-of-fact about it? He can’t be sure, and he knows he and Rin did what they felt they had to. But he just … has a feeling Haru has no need to be anything to anybody – other than just what he is. And Makoto loves that.

He has to give major props to the rental-shop staff – they don’t so much as twitch when they see Haru. It’s all, “What can we do for you gentlemen today?” through gracious smiles.

Total professionals.

“Seriously. Rin. This is all so sudden – I think I like you, but marriage? Why are we rushing this?” Sousuke deadpans as the staff bustle around, expertly fitting the four of them in matching black tuxedos, black cummerbunds, black bowties. Classic. The guy pulling Sousuke’s pants hem down stifles a quick laugh.

“Polymarriage isn’t legal. Not to mention the whole problem that neither is gay marriage,” Haru says seriously, leaning lightly against the standing mirror. They’ve finished fitting him, and Makoto sort of … can’t stop looking at him. Simply put, he didn’t think this lovely man could possibly be any lovelier than splayed beneath him on his bed in his giant fish shirt, hair a total mess; dwarfed by Sousuke’s gray bathrobe, gazing up at him seriously; straining towards orgasm, white skin hectic with his flush. But he was dead-wrong.

The man could clean-up. He looks like a tiny undercover ninja assassin. A Japanese James Bond.

Rin comes up and adjusts Makoto’s tie carefully, smirking over at Haru. “You keep using ‘can’t/isn’t/won’t’ language, honey, we’re never gonna get this group-marriage legislation off the ground. Ya gotta think positive, dummy!” He seems to finish with his tweaking and strokes down Makoto’s tuxedo shirt with satisfaction. “Unff, baby. I forgot just how fabulous you look in one of these. So … debonair.”

“Yeah, I’m a pretty decent de-boner, I guess,” Makoto cracks, and Rin sighs sadly at his sub-pun humor.

“Heh. ‘De-boner.’” Sousuke chuckles.

“I’m glad someone thinks I’m funny. Thank you,” Makoto says pointedly, but he’s a crap liar when he’s happy, and he can’t keep the smile off his face.

“…Well! Here we are, gentlemen, and you all look exquisite if I must say so,” the store manager says with pleasure as the last assistant backs away from Sousuke. “Whatever event you’re going to, you’ll be sure to wow them.” The staff murmur appreciatively, and Makoto can’t resist spinning Rin to face the three-way mirror, pulling Haru and Sousuke in to join them.

They’re … beautiful. They need to be walking up a hallway into a stadium packed with screaming fans dying to hear them sing their latest hit – or something …

Rin’s turning to the manager, blushing, makes a grave bow. “Thank you for your excellent service, sir – these will be perfect, and I only wish now we were buying and not renting them!”

The guy smiles warmly. “Take lots of photos wherever you go, that’ll be just as good. Now – are you and your colleague ready to take care of the second part of the rental?”

Rin’s turning to Haru and dragging him forward, a look of total non-comprehension on his face. “Yes, please. We’ll meet you in that section.” He turns to Sousuke and Makoto. “Secret. Won’t take long. You guys wanna wait in the car?” He makes it clear it isn’t a question.

Makoto shrugs at Sousuke. “Do we have to take these awesome things off?”

Rin grins at them. “Nope. We’re gonna need ‘em for our next stop.”

*

Makoto knows what Rin has planned the second the studio offices come into sight.

…he isn’t. He – just isn’t. Is he??

“Pull in here,” Rin directs Sousuke from the passenger seat, as they drive the Jaguar into a very familiar underground garage, one Makoto can’t count how many times he’s pulled the Honda into, stomach lurching in anticipation or twisting in dread or sinking in just-skating-on-the-edge despair. And today – knowing exactly what’s coming next, even as Haru’s silently staring two blue laser-beam questions into him at his side, as Sousuke gave up on trying to get answers out of Rin 15 minutes ago – all he can feel in his stomach now is glee. The kind of glee when you’re at the game and it’s the last inning, it’s tied, but your team is up and the three best hitters are ready to go, one-two-three, and just SMASH that fucker home.

“C’mon,” Rin grins as he bounces out, Makoto right behind. Sousuke and Haru act like they’re going to their executions in contrast, sliding out warily and looking around them.

“Okay, Rin. What’s going on,” Sousuke says, arms crossed with finality on his massive chest, and Rin just comes close and pats his shoulders gently.

“Gentlemen, I don’t wanna spoil the surprise, but please trust me that it’s all good. And I’m just so damn happy you’re all here for me as I do this. It’s an honor,” he says so seriously, and Makoto doesn’t even need to see his face to know he’s on the verge of tears.

“Of course, Rin. Anything,” Haru says unexpectedly, just as serious, and Makoto wonders if maybe he has an idea what’s coming next. Sousuke just shakes his head, smiling.

“Let’s do this,” he says.

So they file into the building, Rin in the lead. Makoto pulls up the rear, and so has a prime position to watch every utterly satisfying reaction as they pass, big and small. Even though it’s a Tuesday morning, the nondescript office building is bustling – porn never sleeps, after all – and the main lobby is about half-full as they head to the reception desk to check in. All heads waiting in the lobby pop up and blatantly stare; one beefcake-looking guy who appears to be studiously mouthing lines to himself from a rolled-up script glances up once and does a cartoon-worthy double-take, mouth hanging open.

“Well hell-O Dream Team,” he gushes as they pass.

Rin has no time for socializing though, sweeping them right to the desk. “Matsuoka, I have an 11 o’clock with Miyazaki-san, please,” he says politely to the totally chic young woman, who’s struggling not to gawk as obviously as the rest of the lobby’s still doing behind their backs. She checks her screen, clicks something and nods up at them, still looking a little starstruck.

“Are – are you all famous? I’m so sorry to pry!” she says in a rush, covering her mouth and blushing.

“No, not particularly. Watch these two though. They’re going places,” Rin smiles, throwing quick arms around Sousuke’s and Haru’s necks (getting a “Seriously?” from Haru).

They head into the elevator, Makoto finding Rin’s hand in the short trip and getting a bright smile back, and he can almost taste the excitement on him, almost rolling off him in waves. He can’t resist leaning over, softly kissing him and smiling, smiling into the kiss, and Rin just laughs and pushes him off. “Oh, no my dear boy, save it. I’m gonna ask you to put on a little show here in a minute so we don’t want you blowing your wad, do we?”

“Charming, Rin. You can take the boy out of the porn but apparently you can’t take the porn outta the boy,” Sousuke says nonchalantly, arm around Haru, and that seems to strike Rin particularly funny because as the doors slide open at the top floor, he’s doubled over and so immobile the buzzer starts shrieking until Makoto can hurry him out of the way.

“Ready?” he asks Rin breathlessly.

“Ready,” Rin replies, cheeks pink, eyes damp from his laughing fit.

So that’s how they breeze into the swank-tacky office of the CEO of HardTimes Entertainment, the look of total stupid confusion on his big dumb face as they come in already worth the morning’s effort. He sets a coffee mug down and comes around the ‘60s-knockoff kidney-shaped desk to meet them.

“Matsuoka-san! Well! I must say, you certainly DO look good in a tux, why haven’t we got you in more of those?” He blatantly eyes Rin, turns his head-to-toe look to the rest of them. “You pitching a script idea? Wedding party goes wild, maybe? Oh, I see real potential – especially with these guys! But – is he rejoining us…?” His eyes narrow for a moment as he notices Makoto, who’s oddly flattered that his freak-out on-set yesterday apparently made it to the CEO’s radar.

“Miyazaki! Fabulous to see you for the LAST time ever. And funny you say that about Makoto here. So we’ve realized for a long time now that we’ve sold our souls, which would make you the devil.” He grins dangerously at the big man, who just blinks at him in confusion. “So you’ve used us, used this –” He runs a hand down his chest. “Made giant money off us while we got fucked six ways to Sunday and hardly saw a yen in comparison. Makoto’s the smart one. I heard the spectacular way he flamed-out yesterday and just wish I’d been able to see it.”

Now the CEO is pissed, face rigid and hands on his hips. “Now you wait one minute, you little son-of-a-bitch –”

“My mom’s really nice, actually. And I’m really, really fucking tired of not being able to tell her the truth about what I do for a living. It’d be nice to let her maybe, I dunno, meet me at my job for lunch someday. ‘Cause currently, I’m not sure how well she’d like it if we were joined by the whole football team that just did a gangrape shoot with me, oh yeah, with me playing the cheerleader.”

The guy’s heading back around the desk towards his phone now, presumably to get security in there. “Rin,” Makoto says quietly.

Rin just smiles at him. “So!” he says brightly as the guy snatches the receiver up. “As you can guess, I motherfucking quit. I just wanted to give you one last taste of what you guys will not be getting on video anymore.”

And he turns, beaming, to Makoto, and Makoto needs no other invitation, stepping in and cradling Rin tenderly. They do their damnedest to make it their most cinematic kiss ever, moaning and seizing each other’s lower lips between their teeth and plunging their hands in each other’s hair, and at the climax RIN dips HIM. Makoto’s embarrassed as an ex-porn professional to be so flustered when they separate, tugging at his tux collar like a teenager at prom.

Miyazaki is gaping behind his desk. Gaping. A tinny, alarmed voice squawks out of the receiver that’s wilting down in his hand, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“It’s a shame, to be losing such a huge asset,” Sousuke pipes up gravely next to Rin, standing perfectly straight with arms crossed on his chest like a martial-arts master.

“Yeah. Maybe if this guy wasn’t such a soulless motherfucker they’d have better employee retention,” Haru suggests from next to Makoto.

“Hmmm. Good thinking, guys,” Rin nods to them both. “Well, I think I’m done here, unless there’s anything else you’d like to do…?”

Haru leans deeply over – almost shamelessly sticking out his ass – and helpfully disconnects the guy’s call with one finger.

*

They’re back at the apartment, he and Makoto just hanging out killing time while Rin and Haru are in the master bath getting ready for … whatever the hell mysterious shit Rin has planned as today’s grand finale. Sousuke doesn’t know where the day went – without even really discussing it, they headed back to his place after Rin’s triumphant exit, Haru immediately disrobing to pull on his jammers and Makoto actually trying to stop him in some kind of hysterical reflex action, before laughing and getting undressed himself. Their swimming was just … fun, no tension or expectation, Sousuke going against Makoto in a head-to-head, followed by Haru vs. Rin, cheering each other on. Then they switched it up, Makoto taking on Haru who seemed to hesitate before utterly smoking him, Rin showing no such concern for Sousuke when they tore through the pool to a tie.

“GOD I wish I could still do ‘fly – you’d be so fucking dead, Matsuoka,” he sighed as he got his breath back on the wall, and Rin floated over, looking unimpressed.

“You’re all talk, dude,” he remarked, before dunking down and proceeding to dive into an enthusiastic underwater blowjob.

Sousuke just thunked his head back on the pooldeck, gasping, as Makoto drifted in for a kiss … and Sousuke let him, surprising himself, something about the openness of the day, the unexpectedness of – everything, the vicious joy in seeing their last ties to the fucking porn business cut off. And the pull of Rin’s lips was maddening, and his hands were firm on Sousuke’s hips, and Makoto’s lips were generous and soft against his own as the big guy pet a kind hand through his hair. And God, but it felt so GOOD, all of it. To be treated, cared for like that.

Then Rin was releasing his cock and popping up for air, and he was saying “…Haru, switch out…?” So that’s how Sousuke became the center of a tiny aquatic world, tightly clutching a muscular back in each arm as Rin and then Makoto took turns languidly kissing him on either side, as Haru – somehow – stayed down there, taking him deeper than seemed safe even on dry land… And how the HELL could he hold his breath that long? How? Sousuke didn’t notice any break in the perfect ring of tight, insane pressure, travelling up, down, lingering at the head … and he couldn’t take it anymore, and he was coming, coming into Haru’s mouth.

Haru probably didn’t want to get the pool dirty, or something.

They showered in the locker room after that, an almost innocent thing, but somehow it’s like they couldn’t keep away from each other even there. Like they were all addicts and their drug was each other, their bodies, to see them, touch them, each so different – Makoto’s weight, strength, almost thickness, like his own but more sensual somehow; Rin’s angularity and perfect proportions; Haru the most-different of them all, the most “feminine” with his smoothness and subtlety. They didn’t say hardly a thing, just passed around Sousuke’s favorite body wash that he’d brought down, soaped each other up and enjoyed the scent, like a pine forest, fresh.

Now they’ll all smell like me, he thought … and it gave him an odd stab of satisfaction.

They spent the rest of the day just … hanging out in his apartment. Rin snooped happily through his study, his entertainment room, peppering him with questions and laughing at him; Makoto insisted on making the bed with a fresh set of sheets. Haru pulled his overstuffed sketchbook out of his messenger bag, curling up back in his bathrobe (that he’d decided to give up and let him keep) and working away in the corner of whatever room they were all in, eyes flicking intently to each of them as he drew.

Sort of … a perfect day. A natural day. And as he and Makoto lean on the balcony railing in the master bedroom, just lazily looking down at the lights below, he struggles to remember the last time he’s felt so content.

“God, Sousuke. How do you ever come inside with a view like this?” Makoto says, the side of his face Sousuke can see wondering as his eyes roam restlessly over the scene far below. “I mean, hell, it’s rare enough to get any kind of view in Tokyo, much less one like this. I think I’d just live out here.” He turns to Sousuke and smiles.

“It’s pretty great. And I don’t think I’ve used it near as much as I should, which is just dumb,” Sousuke says, running a hand through his hair. He lets his eyes slide down the pleasing form of the other man – Makoto’s borrowing one of his suits, Rin having firmly (…bitchily?) instructed them both to “get looking good” while he and Haru do … whatever.

It fits Makoto surprisingly well, almost like it was made for him, the dove-gray silk skimming his muscles and somehow hiding them while at the same time accentuating them. Sousuke gave him free access to his closet and Makoto paired the gray with a forest green shirt, almost black, and it makes his green eyes darker, a little dangerous. He looks stunning, to be honest.

And Makoto’s just looking at him with such understanding, Sousuke almost flinches. “Oh, Sousuke, I think I get it. You’re so successful! Look at all this! And you don’t get all this by just – sitting around enjoying it, which just sucks. Unless you’re rich, but rich boys don’t go off writing gay romance novels,” he says sardonically, and Sousuke snorts and bumps his shoulder.

“Nope. You know something? Today has been … really fun. I’m starting to see what I’ve been doing wrong all along, I think,” he says slowly.

Makoto looks alarmed. “Oh, no, we don’t wanna corrupt you and Haru away from your work!” he says all in a rush, and Sousuke can’t take how CUTE he is, and he tilts Makoto’s head towards him and playfully kisses him.

It starts small, almost inconsequential; but quickly he feels Makoto’s big, somehow graceful hand feathering up into his hair again, and he just LOVES that, and he slides an arm around the soft gray silk at Makoto’s waist – impressed at its firmness, its heat – and Makoto sighs softly against him, and they are full-on making out.

“A-ahem! Um, would the two dudes who are supposed to be our dates kindly get off each other and come be our dates?” a sharp, playful voice stabs out from the bedroom, and Makoto leaps away from him like his parents just got home.

“Damn, Makoto. You gotta keep your woman in line,” he jokes, turning and heading through the sliding door –

– and Rin and Haru are there, and they ARE women.

They are women, somehow (at the rental place??) they got their hands on a couple of dresses, pairs of high heels, they’ve been in the master bath fucking doing each other’s hair and makeup (???). And they’re still Rin and Haru, but – they’re Rin and Haru, as they would be if they were beautiful, striking women ready for a night out to a club, it’s some parallel universe, and Sousuke just stands frozen, blinking.

Makoto’s doing a little better. “I … I don’t know if I could keep her in line,” he says wonderingly as he comes up to Rin, just – GLOWING in a sleek white mini-dress, muscular arms and chest hidden by long-sleeves and a turtleneck that just accentuates his pointed chin, legs proudly bare and smooth and powerful. He tilts his head up to Makoto, hair softly falling away, and his lined eyes are impossibly huge and bright in the low lighting of the room.

“Whatd’ya think?” he smirks.

“Um,” Makoto replies eloquently.

“And check out Haru! Holy shit, I can’t believe I got you to do this in the first place, and I just knew how gorgeous you’d be,” Rin gushes over at him –

…and Sousuke just STARES.

Haru can’t be real. This IS his Haru … and at the same time, he’s turned into something – new, and Sousuke blinks at him and is hit with a weird pang of doubt. If this creature can get to him like this, make him want to walk over and pick (her?) up bridal-style, go right to the bed and fuck (her???) until she begs for mercy, then do it all over again… Well, what does that mean, exactly? He knows wearing a dress doesn’t get rid of your dick, he’s no idiot. But – there’s something deeper at work here, that he’s never felt for anyone “cross-dressing” before, and he pauses in uncertainty. Is this when he discovers he’s really been fucking bi all along? Is THAT what this is??

Or – is this just Haru – messing with his circuits, like he always seems to do…?

Haru, who gracefully steps up to him, and the room has gone totally silent, like Rin and Makoto somehow sense the weird moment he’s working through. And Haru is a goth vision, he’s head-to-toe black from the perfection of his glossy hair that’s smoothed carefully down for probably the first time in his life, to the long, soft sleeveless black dress that drapes from a loose neckline, the top of Haru’s chest peeking out so pale. All black – except the eyes that have never been more blue, the smoky liner sending them up to Sousuke like there’s nothing else in the room.

“You look nice,” Haru says, almost shyly, holding his forearms and blatantly looking his black suit and shirt over.

“…if I’d known you were doing black, I’d have picked a different color,” he somehow forces out through lips that feel as uncoordinated as blocks of wood, and Rin’s laughing at him, surprise surprise. The little shit.

“Oh, black is always in, Sousuke. Besides then you guys look awesome. Like Morticia and Gomez Addams.”

Haru delicately shoots a hand with middle finger raised off Sousuke’s arm, not even breaking eye contact. “Sit and spin, Matsuoka.”

“Ungrateful fucker. That’s the last time I doll you up.” He stops, grinning. “I lied. I am dressing you up every chance I get. You are the best model EVER.”

Haru just rolls his (beautiful) eyes.

*

The club is thumping with music and packed with people, even on a Tuesday. It’s someplace Rin likes, that Makoto’s apparently been to on occasion, so they’re comfortable hosts as they lead Sousuke and Haru to the bar to order. The heavily-built bartender practically leaps to serve them, looking a little starstruck as he takes them in, winks jauntily at Rin and Haru when he hands – not pushes them – their drinks. He folds a cocktail napkin into Rin’s hand too. Sousuke’s shaking his head as he starts the tab.

“Did that bartender just give you his number?” he asks Rin as they settle at a round table on the edge of the dance floor, having to pitch his voice over the techno. The disorientingly lovely redhead unfolds the napkin, snickers down.

“Uh, yep. God, I wonder if he has a clue that I’m, uh, batting for his team. Maybe I should go ask him when his break is…?”

“Rin, leave the poor guy alone!” Makoto scolds, wrapping an arm around him and squeezing.

“Ow! Okay, King Kong! You’re just jealous he didn’t go for you.”

“…how do you know that number isn’t for me?” Makoto asks coyly, waggling his brows and taking a pull from his amaretto.

“Touche, Makoto,” Haru smiles at him, and clinks his beer bottle to Makoto’s cocktail glass.

“So, I propose another toast,” Sousuke says suddenly, and the handsome man and two stunning “women” turn to him, surprised and silent. “To the best fucking exit interview of all time.”

Giant grins from Rin and Makoto; even Haru wears a big smile, as Rin crows “Hear-fucking-hear!” and they all clink glasses and bottles and drink.

“Haru doesn’t drink,” Sousuke fires off as soon as they can all talk again, the beer bottle looking so foreign in Haru’s hand. The gorgeous blues narrow dangerously at him. “Total lightweight. Actually, first time he stayed over was an accident because we shared a bottle of wine watching 'Mohicans' and he passed right the fuck out.” Now Haru’s eyes are DEATH.

“Just one bottle, eh?” Makoto seems strangely interested. “Oh my God, that is so funny! Rin is exactly the same! He’s almost a total non-drinker, and you know, that night we ran into each other at the restaurant we’d had a bottle of Bordeaux and Rin –”

“OKAY, smartypants,” Rin growls. To Haru: “You know, Haru, we don’t need these – these bullies to have a good time. C’mon.” He shoots up, holds out a hand, and Haru gets up and takes it, allows Rin to drag him out to the dancefloor as he and Makoto gawk.

“What’d we say?” he asks Makoto.

“…I think they were feeling – ganged-up on,” Makoto guesses.

“How! It’s two-on-two!” he laughs suddenly, the Scotch warm in his chest and Makoto so … beautiful in the club lights, smirking at him, the music shifting into something almost sultry, with a syncopated, throbbing beat. They both turn like they just know there’s something to watch …

And Rin’s out there, like he’s in another WORLD, he’s pacing a little circle around Haru so teasingly, so seductively, trailing a hand around his back, his shoulders, his chest. Eyes – never leaving Haru’s as he sways, one foot gracefully stopping behind the other, switch, repeat. Haru … Haru just turning with him so they don’t break eye contact, dress moving softly as he does. Then Rin slides in and carefully wraps his arms around Haru, holds him low on his back, moves their hips in close so they’re practically joined and coaxes Haru into his deliberate, slowly swaying dance. They turn and move and cover the floor – other dancers and clubgoers on the sidelines just staring openly at the erotic sight – but they seem to have no awareness of anyone but each other.

Haru’s hands come up, faltering, like he’s unsure – then they continue and slide through Rin’s soft fall of fiery hair…

…and as they sway in the dream that is the pulse of the song…

...they fall into each other for a kiss, that goes on and on as Rin’s hands drop to gently cup the curve of Haru’s ass.

Sousuke couldn’t speak if he wanted to, couldn’t look away if he HAD to; beside him he feels Makoto in an identical state, hands clutching forgotten drinks on the table. To say he’s “turned on” would be a preposterous understatement – he’s ALL need, he’s a roaring tornado of fucking desire, it’s not even his cock, it’s his whole fucking body that needs, needs, NEEDS.

“Sousuke,” Makoto says thickly next to him.

“Y-Yeah,” he says back.

But – suddenly something’s happening on the floor – they can’t see the white and the black and the red anymore, the crowd’s in the way and a voice is raised in a pissed-off shout. A laugh rings out (Rin??) and then Rin’s there, storming back to their table with color high, Haru following.

“What happened??” Makoto demands, jumping up and grabbing Rin’s shoulder, turning and grabbing Haru’s too. “Are you alright?” Sousuke’s standing too before he knows it and folding Haru in front of him, wrapping his arms protectively around him.

Rin grins hard at Haru. “We’re fine. Some asshole got offended by our dancing, whether that was because it was two chicks dancing or two dudes I dunno, get your prejudices straight, dude!” he yells out onto the dance floor where people are still uncertainly milling around, and a big, beefy guy is discreetly materializing beside their table. Rin leans in where Haru’s folded and kisses him again, looks around at Makoto and Sousuke when he pulls off. “Guy comes over and gets right in our faces, says us queers should suck his cock. So naturally Haru grabs him right there and proceeds to go down on him.”

Makoto looks horrified. “Haru!! You didn’t!”

“Oh, but he did! Didn’t get very far, being that they were in the middle of the dancefloor and the guy was basically trying to beat him off,” and Rin’s bent over laughing uncontrollably, and Haru hasn’t said a word, and the beefy guy is now discreetly introducing himself.

So that’s how they get bounced from Rin’s favorite club; but that’s OK, because the vibe is sorta gone there anyway. And Rin and Makoto know a great place they can go for boozy adult milkshakes and fried dill pickles.

***

HIII everybody!!!

God it’s nice to be back with you and with this story, even if I really need to mail you all commerative signed photos of Rin and Haru in drag for making it through all that with me ;D. There was just so much I wanted to do with them this chapter – mainly, Rin being a guy who gets stuff done, it seemed like he should enact his Grand Last Day of Work ASAP. These guys being who they are, all the other stuff just sorta … happened without warning…

The most-interesting thing about polyromance to me is the adjustment and the “messy” feelings. It’d be weird! If you came in with a person, how would it feel to see them with those other people? How would YOU feel being with those other people? It’d be awkward! You’d want alone-time! You’d want to maybe just hook up with one other person sometimes…

I tried introducing a few of those themes, and hope to get deeper into them before this ends. And it’s funny – at the end of the day this is clearly a fic for FUN. It ain’t winning any awards for journalism lol. So as much as I would love to be really gritty, it ain’t in the cards ;)))

I can't help hearing Lady Gaga's ["Alejandro"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=niqrrmev4mA) as Rin and Haru dance in those dresses…but if Gaga's not your thing that's totally cool too ;D

AND! I must give props to [TheGirlOnFandoms](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlOnFandoms/pseuds/TheGirlOnFandoms) for confirming without a doubt that, yes, Haru belongs in a Little Black Dress <3 :)


	26. Growing pains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...eep! Another update - but this one's a little interlude ... a "SEXY" interlude, practically PWP. But with Lessons Learned. So we can all feel good about it lol.
> 
> THANK YOU ALL for continuing to stick with me, and for newly coming on board - I seriously love you beautiful people ;) <3

Sousuke wonders if he should be concerned about the utter loss of his work ethic.

It’s Wednesday. He hasn’t laid down anything of any value on _Brohicans_ in five days – unless, you count meeting and, uh, making some kind of commitment pledge (????) to its two main protagonists. Which, come to think of it, is a pretty great accomplishment that ought to at _least_ count for a week’s worth of work. He rationalizes.

He hasn’t heard from Rei yet but knows his kind and ever-patient editor must be getting a little concerned at the lack of an update from them this week, especially given their blazing progress so far. He guesses Haru’s probably in the same boat – though it’s possible he _hasn’t even turned on his phone yet,_ his communication skills as abysmal as they are. Sousuke sees that as simultaneously maddening and weirdly cute.

This “endless weekend” feeling is apparently something shared by the other guys … as Sousuke slouches comfortably at the head of his dining room table observing the scene before him in bemusement.

Rin leans eagerly over his second plate of steak-and-eggs, gesturing theatrically with his fork as he tells a highly-inappropriate story about some ex of his sister, eyes sparkling wickedly through the wafting steam of his third cup of coffee. Sousuke grins and listens, letting his eyes take in the ridiculously adorable vision of this man who last night could’ve had every straight man in the club picking him up – and this morning is giving Haru a run for his money when it comes to Einstein-haystack hair, in a borrowed tank and sweatpants from Sousuke. Like two (of the many…?) sides of Rin’s explosive personality…

Makoto’s over helping Haru with the dishes, they having long finished since they didn’t insist on another helping of Sousuke’s extra-Western breakfast. (Sousuke makes a mental-note about the redhead’s apparent rabid love of beef.) As Rin gets into the gory details of this chick Gou-san dumped, Sousuke can’t help catching the scene at the sink in his peripheral vision, both men also in borrowed clothes (Makoto in a sweater and jeans, Haru apparently deciding to screw normal-people conventions and adopting his bathrobe for the long-haul). They’re just – so _serene_ together, there’s this – UNDERSTANDING going on in the way Haru hands Makoto each washed pan for him to dry, the big man accepting with a slow, sweet smile… They aren’t _talking_ (or not that he can hear over Rin’s story that’s now turned gynecological), but they’re communicating just the same.

…and then they’re suddenly leaving the kitchen, Haru quietly slipping into the hallway and Makoto pausing behind him. Rin stops his story for a moment and he and Sousuke look up.

“We’ll just be a little bit. You guys hold down the fort, okay? Don’t CHOKE, Rin,” he teases, pointing at Rin’s plate like some First Aid trainer from the Red Cross.

“Pffft. I should say the same to _you,_ dude,” Rin grins, pointing back. Sousuke just stares mutely. “Have fun!”

Makoto rolls his eyes at Rin, then smiles sweetly at them both and disappears after Haru down the hall.

“…where the fuck was I…?” Rin absently mutters, swirling his mug before taking a long drink, with obvious relish. “MmmMMM that is such good coffee, Sousuke. I get it now. Be rich, get to drink fucking _awesome_ hand-picked coffee from the farthest reaches of dark Patagonia, or something. God, it’s almost worth selling your soul.”

“Who said I sold my soul…?” he asks distantly, hand around his own mug, but he isn’t even _looking_ at poor Rin, he’s still stuck, eyes pinned to the hall where the pair (…the _pair_ ) disappeared, so … so casually, to do what any couple would do after a leisurely breakfast, after they finished washing up.

But where the fuck did that leave _him_? What about Rin? How can Rin sit here, without a care, enjoying his fucking coffee and second-helping of steak-and-eggs, content? Cracking JOKES about his fucking lover choking – on _Sousuke’s_ lover’s cock?? How? Isn’t this – an all-or-nothing thing they’ve entered into? The Four Musketeers, all for one and one for all? _Where,_ in that immortal fucking book, did it say “…all for one and two for two?” ‘Cause that would make a _shitty –_ if altogether MODERN – interpretation …

“Um, hell-o, take a look around, Penthouse Guy. And I mean the fine living space, not the horrible American nudie magazine,” Rin cracks, and Sousuke slowly looks back to him. Rin’s grinning, gesturing grandly like Vanna White revealing the answer on _Wheel of Fortune._ “And you know what the best part is? YOU’RE the smart one. Me and Mako, we sold our souls too, but like I said yesterday we sorta got squat. I live in a teeny-tiny place, I don’t really own anything of value. I like getting nice gifts for my mom and sis, mostly. Makoto, his place is hardly any better. He DOES have that bitchin’ Civic you’ve had the pleasure to ride in. Oooh, and you and Haru getting up to all sorts of trouble in the backseat, you crazy kids.” He squints and smirks at him, and Sousuke can just stare back, feeling about eight steps behind.

“But _you,_ Mr. Yamazaki, you in our little group here also chose money … and damn, but you chose right. I mean, I thought me and Mako picked careers where we’d be getting rich off our natural talents, but YOU really did it! I mean it, I think that’s awesome, good for you. Look at all you’ve accomplished,” and he waves a single hand around again, not grand this time, but just sincere. “And _unlike_ us, people can read your books, that came out of your _imagination,_ where NOBODY had to get hurt to make them happen, and they can get all kinds of enjoyment out of it.” He gently shoves Sousuke’s shoulder with a _ehhh?_ look on his face.

Sousuke finds himself scoffing, but through a reluctant smile. “’Nobody got hurt’? Damn, son, come back to me when you’ve had yourself a nasty case of carpal tunnel syndrome, and we’ll talk about suffering for our work.”

“Oh, I’ve been acquainted with some _nasty_ tunnels alright, WriterMan,” Rin zings back through a giant mouthful, and suddenly Sousuke knows why Makoto warned him against choking –

Which just slams him back into the thought-spiral he was stuck in before, and he falls silent as Rin happily continues eating his steak.

“…Rin,” he begins, hesitant. How can he even _phrase_ this? “How … how can you be okay with Makoto … with Makoto going off with Haru like that? That _is_ what they’re doing, I’m sure we don’t need to pretend,” he says bitterly. Rin stops chewing and looks up instantly, eyes pinned to his in confusion. Concern?

“Pretend? Who the fuck is pretending what? What the fuck is the matter with you, dude?” He swallows, leans forward, eyes narrowed. “Did – did you guys _talk_ about this at all, before we all…?”

Sousuke can’t help it – he just laughs, a barking thing, not something he planned. It takes him a minute to be able to talk again. “Uh, ‘talking’ isn’t something Haru and I ‘excel’ at.”

Rin gapes at him. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I know none of us had a whole lot of time since this all went down, but shit, even at the coffeeshop you were like pitching that ridiculous free-loving thing to us! Why change your tune now?”

Sousuke’s starting to feel ill, regretting the hearty breakfast, regretting opening his mouth in the first place, if this is the kind of trouble it gets him in. “Forget it, Rin. Long fucking story. Let’s just say we – let’s just say Haru and I both are on the exact same page in wanting to be with you guys … but – we haven’t figured out _how …_ yet.” And slams his fool mouth shut again, cursing his total ineloquence, the first stirrings of anger brewing on Rin’s face.

“’You haven’t figured out HOW yet.’ Uh, OKAY. Well, I think HARU’s doing a fine job figuring out how right now. And you know what, Sousuke? I get it, sweetheart. I really do. I don’t think _any_ of us knows what the fuck we’re doing here, and you’re right, what we probably should do is sit down and figure that out. Like a team. But in the meantime, we’re all okay together. That’s – that’s what _this_ is. If Haru wants to go find out what being with Mako is like, you need to _let him._ If you want to be with me –“ Rin suddenly, violently, grabs Sousuke’s hand from the table and snakes it under, to where he’s hot and firm – and Sousuke pulls back like he’s been burned. Rin leans back into the table on his elbows, pinning him with his eyes, serious.

“…you _be with me._ You don’t fear, or worry. You just DO IT. Because that’s what this is, and that’s okay. I want to be with Haru, too. You and I may want to be with Mako. OR Haru. Who the fuck knows! You gotta let go of these possessive feelings, Sou. Please.”

“We haven’t all been pornstars, you know,” he grates back, without thinking. “I haven’t been watching him take cock from other guys, a whole bunch at a time, and pretend to like it. We haven’t been _privy_ to many _orgies,_ ” and now Rin’s face is pale – pale and shocked, but Sousuke can’t STOP talking when before he couldn’t start, and he’s storming on. “I’m it. I’m all he’s ever had. And I thought that was special, okay?? Why wouldn’t that be special?”

He’s up. He isn’t sure where he’s going until he’s halfway down the dim hallway, Rin calling behind, voice pitched low – “Sousuke!” – and he blundering on, on until he hits the master, ready to see them, ready to _stop them –_

To find it empty, filled with its usual bright morning sun, his bed made and empty.

Sousuke blinks stupidly on the threshold, staring at the incongruous sight; then, hears –

Soft.

Slapping; the unmistakable sound of skin-on-skin; hollow, in that way only the pelvis makes when brought in against someone’s ass … someone’s pert, perfect ass…

Feeling like his head is oddly removed from the rest of him, he turns, heads back towards the guest bedroom. Sees Rin coming to join him from the other direction, question and warning fighting it out in his eyes.

He gets to the door first. Lays a big hand on the handle.

Rin’s _at_ his shoulder, digging into his arm with sharp fingers. Hissing. “Don’t you _dare_ interrupt them. Unless it’s to offer to join _and improve on what’s going on,_ you just leave them alone.”

Ignoring him, Sousuke – oh-so-gently, silently – turns the handle. Opens the door, enough to get a good look at what’s going on inside.

Makoto has Haru. Utterly, totally HAS him. They’re against the guest bed, backs to the cracked door, not any indication they know anyone’s watching. And Mako’s still fully clothed – in _his_ sweater, his jeans, as he kneels on the soft rug surrounding the bed. As he pins Haru against it, naked, one hand firmly holding his arms in a neat fold against his low back. Other hand keeping his head – his beautiful head – turned into the comforter, fingers splayed through Haru’s hair still soft from Rin’s work styling it last night.

And – and _God -_ he’s, he’s fucking Haru, fucking him to _within an inch of his life,_ just almost RELENTLESS as his beautiful ass – his only exposed part – contracts above Sousuke’s jeans, as he _thrusts_ into Haru again and again, as they make that rhythmic _slapslapslap_ that brought Sousuke here in the first place, as Haru jolts so bonelessly into the bed.

As he gasps in time.

As Makoto leans – breathlessly whispers “do you like this, hmmm? You want more, Haru-chan? I can give you more…”

As Haru just – just helplessly moans in answer, whether because he’s beyond words or is giving Makoto all that he needs, Sousuke doesn’t know… And Makoto’s changing it up, he’s sliding his hand between Haru’s legs, his other hand slipping from Haru’s messy head to his neck –

– and Makoto’s falling forward, laying over Haru, shielding him from Sousuke’s view, his hand working in time on Haru’s cock, and Haru’s gasps have vanished as Makoto – _chokes_ him, he’s – he’s doing breath-play with Haru and he’s just _pounding_ Haru –

– and Sousuke’s head is pounding and his heart is pounding and his _cock_ is throbbing and his vision grays along the edges. And he simply … can’t turn away, not until the end, not until Haru’s limp on the bed, breathing heavily, Makoto flipped-into another man almost, moving into him so slowly and smoothly, it’s like he’s hardly penetrating him at all … But it’s like he can’t stop kissing Haru, his face turned to meet him and the crown of his head, his bare shoulders, his lean arms that he’s brought up and around…

…and as he moves deeply in Haru and kisses him, he’s murmuring, meaningless, almost wordless things… beautiful things, and Sousuke is suddenly ashamed to be at the door intruding on them.

Haru says something Sousuke can’t hear, and Makoto is giggling breathlessly as he picks up speed, and Sousuke senses somehow that Haru just gave him the go-ahead to finish, like Haru is the guy in the car-race waving Makoto on with the giant flag. And Makoto ducks his head into Haru’s – goes rigid – and just _relaxes_ over him, it’s like the total relaxation he displayed while sleeping yesterday times a hundred. Just … stays there, breathing like he swam the 1500m. And Haru lets him.

Sousuke so, very gently pulls the door closed, sure to make it soundless as it meets the jamb. Rin is nowhere to be found when he turns, and he creeps back down the hall, feeling somehow dirty, like a spy who had no right to see what he just did.

Rin’s in the living room, stretched out on one of the couches flicking through his tablet with violent flicks of his wrist. His face is stone, body rigidly telegraphing just how _pissed_ he clearly is. At Sousuke. Naturally.

He weaves over and sits kitty-corner, crossing his legs over his arousal, head in a haze. “So. I didn’t go in there, _IF_ that means anything to you,” he finally says after he can’t stand Rin angrily ignoring him a second longer.

“Good.” Rin keeps flicking.

“’Good’? Wow. I thought you’d be prouder I’m, oh, conquering my ‘animal nature’.” He makes a giant set of air quotes just in case Rin can’t pick up on his sarcasm.

Rin sets the tablet on his coffeetable with a click, swings up to sitting. Just _stares_ at him for a long minute until he’s SO TEMPTED to crack – but finally sighs, leans forward on his elbows again.

“Oh, honey. I _am_ proud. Did you – did you stand there _watching them?_ ”

Sousuke suddenly can’t find any of his erudite wit and just stares. He might faintly nod.

But Rin doesn’t seem to mind, is moving on. “…and you DIDN’T go busting down the door like Arnold Schwarzenegger?? _Wow,_ honey, did I ACTUALLY have a positive impact on you? Glory, glory Halleluia, man!” Now he’s smiling, just a little thing, but it softens his face so much Sousuke feels himself softening too, relaxing. Though … he’s just as uselessly turned-on…

Rin’s smile’s slowly turning devilish, as he stands, steps over to Sousuke’s couch and swings into his lap. Raises his brows at what he finds in Sousuke’s lap as he settles in – and Sousuke dimly thinks, _so THIS is how Rin likes it. I’m gonna have to start calling him Brokeback Mountain for all the cowboy he plays at._

“Ah! So apparently you’re feeling better about the whole ‘wahh wahh my virginal b.f. wants us in a polyromance’ thing,” Rin says thoughtfully, as he deliberately reaches down to free both their erections, in surprisingly comparable stages of progress (Sousuke wonders just how long Rin lingered behind him at the bedroom door…).

“I – I still think we need to talk – talk about it,” he says brokenly, jerking against his wishes as the lovely redhead sweeps precum up, and down, comingling both their wetness together, gazing down with such a _yeah right tell me another one you pain in my ass_ look that Sousuke wants to laugh, NOW, but couldn’t even if he tried.

“Oh, sure! I’m a big fan of talking. Talking is _great,_ ” Rin says sincerely, then curves his upper back over him like some kind of incubus, hands getting to their job seriously, rocking his hips in agreement with his hands. Giving them a little _flick,_ just like when he was reading the tablet earlier…

“…but fucking, _fucking_ is sometimes the ONLY way to fly, my lovely friend,” he decides, as he speeds them up ruthlessly and _shoves_ Sousuke’s head back into the deep leather softness with his own, pushes his tongue in and spreads Sousuke’s mouth so wide it almost hurts –

And he’s done, that’s it, he surrenders, he’s waving his sticky white flag all the fuck _over_ his hoodie, making a muffled and supremely-frustrated “Aaaaaghhh!” into Rin’s mouth as he does.

Rin isn’t so quick, and he almost thinks it’s purposeful, the way he seizes control again, turns a duet into a fucking solo – but Sousuke can HARDLY complain, with this sweating, straining _creature_ perfectly balanced in his lap, glistening in the sunlight as he furiously works his muscled arm, as he finishes with a “…fuuuuck!” and slumps awkwardly into Sousuke’s chest and their nasty mess and sweat. But he doesn’t think Rin gives a shit. And Sousuke instantly brings his shaking arms up to hold him.

Behind them. Haru. “Your housekeeper is gonna fucking MURDER us.”

***

…heh. That Haru, Mr. Smartass ;)

SO, this totally bizarro chap literally popped-up out of nowhere – lotsa, lotsa, like, PLOT has to happen instead of detouring for PWP, but really, there are important issues here. Or at least I think so. They really DO have to talk. There really WILL be random pair-ups (or not-so-random ones). And honestly, I think Sousuke is a show-don’t-tell sorta guy, lol. That is, I’m not sure WHAT letting him see Haru get pounded by Mako did for him, exactly; but it freed his hangup a little, let him see these guys are after SEX, like him, but love too. And showed him how hot a little live voyeurism could be here. (Oh I sorta had fun making the First-Ever MakoHaru Intimate Moment here basically be a totally filthy kinky quickie – not sure if that’s Haru’s request or both of theirs! But of course, this being MakoHaru, it had to get sweet at the end <3)


	27. The Happy Fun Insight Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...ohhh we come to another Giant FEEEELS chap, eeek and hold on tight my dears! I thank you all for everything, you're the reason this thing exists. Full stop :)))

Rin and Sousuke flip their heads over to the hallway in response to Haru’s smartass comment so fast, he’s suddenly tempted to bray a shot of semi-hysterical laughter at their perfect synchronicity, at the “duh” look on both of their faces.

So he just goes for it. “Oh my God, you guys would make a fantastic comedy act. Cheech and Dong?” he quips at them, continuing painstakingly (which he hides by going slooowly) into the kitchen and heading for the fridge. He pulls two bottles of water out, then turns and sees Makoto, leaning quietly against the kitchen wall, so big and graceful and ridiculously lovely and REAL, arms crossed on his powerful chest, watching him intently. He’s wearing the slightest smile. So small, you could miss it. But Haru knows it’s there.

He shuffles over and amuses himself by balancing a bottle precariously, right where Mako’s forearms cross each other. He’s disproportionately pleased when it stays up. _This could be an Obon festival game,_ he thinks randomly. People would line up for blocks. For obvious reasons.

“Better hydrate, Makoto,” he advises.

The corners of Mako’s wide mouth turn up the littlest-bit more. “Thanks, Haru-chan … but only if you do first,” the big man says sincerely, tipping his head down and laying a kiss right on the top-ridge of Haru’s ear … and somehow, _somehow,_ managing to keep the water vertical. Was this man a fucking contortionist, or what??

…actually, judging from what Haru’d seen so far, he’d put money on “Pilates enthusiast” at least…

“Okay, you two adorable lovebirds. You wanna join us over here in the conversation area so we can have a, uh, conversation?” Rin says behind him, and Haru raises his brows at Makoto before turning.

Rin and Sousuke are sitting – weirdly quietly – on the couch, side by side, Rin curled comfortably cross-legged and Sou straight and stiff, stance wide, arms crossed tightly on his chest. They’ve each shed a layer as a quick clean-up after the shared handjobs he and Makoto interrupted, leaving Sousuke in a tank that emphasizes how muscular he is ... how _strong._ Even with the injury, so strong. Rin’s even nuder, shirtless but apparently unconcerned with arms stretched across the back of the couch.

Sou’s face, though.

Shuttered up as dark and mysterious, as disquieting, as an abandoned house. And Haru’s suddenly afraid.

He would probably stand there all day, paralyzed by that foreign look, but Mako’s grabbing his hand. To pull him over there like a kindergarten teacher with a shy kid, probably. “You guys need anything from the kitchen?” he calls over casually.

“Aaactually, yes.” Rin turns to Sousuke and pokes him in the nearest pec, and he jumps and smacks Rin away. _Snarls_ at him.

“ _Dammit,_ Rin!”

The redhead’s unconcerned. “Where do you keep your sake? The good stuff.”

Sousuke looks like he’s ready to verbally abuse Rin some more – in fact he looks pretty much done with them all – then flips a look to Haru … and it’s still so cool, so wary, Haru wants to go over there, climb in his lap in some pathetic puppyish attempt at communication. (At contrition?) But he just waits.

“Haru. Go to the back of the bar. There’s a bottle of Tenryo Koshu. Cups in the china cabinet.”

And Haru wordlessly turns, releases Makoto’s warm, enveloping hand, makes his way back into the hallway, feeling like Sousuke’s giving him some test. Some little gesture of their … partnership, some way to see if Sousuke – can still trust him? Looking for some sign of good faith.

In the entertainment room, Haru stands behind the bar, just – staring. He’s totally out of his depth. The glass-front wine chest looks comfortingly familiar – calling up instant warm feelings, the taste of rich cherries on his tongue, soft heat spreading through his whole body as he falls into a happy fuzziness, Sou so still and solid at his side.

But he isn’t here for wine, and turns around, suddenly overwhelmed by bottles upon bottles upon _bottles._ Good GOD, why the fuck should anyone need so many everloving ways to erase their memory, their inhibitions, to lose themselves, to get _high?_ How dumb, what a waste. And Haru’s unable to separate Sou from this feeling, from how _different_ they are, from how sad it is that this man who’s so alive and bright and funny and HERE would need to get himself so obliterated, probably every time he brings his fucks over.

…Sousuke getting his stupid, anonymous fucks _all_ nice and blitzed in here, stumbling them out to his bedroom as they smile and toss cliched dirtytalk at each other. Heads swimming, kisses clumsy and sloppy as they overact through their porn-inspired moans and groans. Stupid, so fake and _stupid!_ As Sou – as he shoves them down and perfunctorily takes them. As he works out the next morning, pushing through the pain of his hangover and trying to remember _anything_ about what the dude(s) looked like. Much less their names.

Haru’s eyes finally fall on the right bottle and he gets on tiptoe (… _another test?_ he thinks bitterly) to tip it off the highest shelf, is thankful the china cabinet is a far easier task to the left of all the booze. He shuffles back out with four little cups in one hand, the Tenryo Koshu in the other.

Three handsome faces look up as he enters, and he’s hit by disorienting déjà vu – this intense focus of all their beauty on _him_ , though each man is in a very different place today. He’s almost embarrassed at the obviousness of the brightening in Makoto’s eyes, the crinkle that fans out at their corners; Rin gives him a dangerously lopsided smile. “We’re in trouble now, huh, Haru,” he says, glancing at the bottle in Haru’s hand, but his smile doesn’t waver.

Sousuke … Sousuke is so still, and drawn into himself, like he’s waiting – for _something._ Like he won’t or can’t know how to act until he finds out whatever he’s waiting for.

There’s been a seating switchup while Haru was gone, and Rin’s moved to the other couch, leaning comfortably back in one corner, Makoto tucked in the other corner. Sousuke’s alone, and he doesn’t pat the cushion next to him. Does nothing to show Haru he’s welcome; sits awkwardly, arms crossed.

Haru goes to him, sets the sake on the table and snugs himself beside Sousuke … and he takes a breath, then slides carefully in. And – Haru imagines, envisions, that he’s a little space heater … a little wood-burning stove, a campfire, _something,_ and he’s radiating heat out to the big man tucked next to him. Heat – and comfort – and it’s reaching out and seeping softly in, wherever they touch, where the curve of his cheek slots into his basically-bare shoulder, where he reaches to curve a hand around Sou’s firm thigh, where he sneaks his bare feet up to stack them on top of one of Sousuke’s. And Haru just breathes, slowly, and sighs, and the big man relaxes against him, by the millimeter.

He flicks a look over and catches Rin sending a loaded look to Makoto. He’d almost call it a _pregnant_ look. If they were all women.

“…so?” Haru asks them. “We having a big love-commune group meeting here, or what? And we getting totally drunk on Sou’s totally expensive sake or what?”

He expects Rin to pour for him – the two amateurs taking care of each other, like the blind leading the blind or something. But suddenly he’s falling _sans_ grace sideways into the empty space where Sousuke used to be, Mr. Musclebound leaning to the coffeetable and unscrewing the top from the bottle, pouring a cup so full it’s kissing the edge. He slides it to Haru and his face is just as hard to read … harder-edged, maybe. Flavor of a dark, angry dare.

“Bottoms- _up_ there, _Na-na-se,_ ” he pronounces with so much insinuation it’s like he’s teaching a class in it, and Haru finds his stone-face.

“What the fuck,” he says coolly, and it’s rude, it’s so rude, but it’s just him and Sousuke in the room now. Until the big idiot can tell him what the problem is. Like a grownup.

Now Sou’s smirking hard at him like he’s witholding the answer to a riddle, and he actually picks Haru’s hand up, brings it to the cup. “Ah-ah,” he lilts. “Drink.” He looks to their neglected companions. “You too.”

“Well … don’t want Haru drinking alone, I guess,” Makoto’s saying slowly, cautiously, and Haru’s still a damn statue, and he watches as Rin pours for Makoto, face hesitant. They switch then Mako is filling a cup for Rin that’s so teeny, Haru wants to laugh his ass off at Makoto’s adorable caretaking … but he’s distracted by the firm fingers still pressing down over his own. And they’re all waiting for him, apparently.

“Oh, Christ on a _crutch,_ ” he growls, peeling Sousuke’s mitt off and raising his cup, a little bit sloshing onto his fingers, not giving a shit. He tilts his head back and ruthlessly gulps the whole thing down, it’s a decent-sized cup and he guesses there are two shots in there, three, he has no idea about drink measurements. And it’s good, as it goes down, the burn subtle, as insinuating as Sou’s fucking sexual innuendo, but farrrr more elegant. He’s hit with the taste of cherries as he clicks the ceramic angrily back on the table, shuddering involuntarily. “Urrgh! Bunch of _assholes._ ”

“Assholes, Haru?” Makoto’s asking as he picks his own cup up, and his face is so … ridiculously filled with concern, Haru wants to laugh again. Crazily. But he manages to shut up and stare back in a way he hopes is apologetic.

“No, sorry. I guess _you_ guys aren’t assholes. Just this one.” He turns to Sousuke – who’s pouring him ANOTHER full cup. “Hey, what about you??”

“You GET him, Haru,” Rin grins viciously, raising his cup before throwing it back with gusto. Makoto switches his Concerned Look to him and slides over to sneak an arm around his bare shoulders.

“You want me drinking, you pour,” Sousuke says, then pushes his full cup at him again as if it isn’t _right in front of him_ already. “C’mon, Haru. Drink.”

Haru stabs him with what he hopes is his best glare, but isn’t sure, and grabs the damn cup again, swallowing it back. This time – this time the burn is just as smooth, but feels about twice as hot, which he knows makes no sense as the cup didn’t magically grow in the meantime. The ceramic makes an unsteady rattle against the glass when he puts it back.

He carefully pulls the last dry cup to him by one finger, slowly … and picks up the bottle just as deliberately. He feels the weight of their eyes on him – they’ve all stopped drinking, they’re just staring – as he oh, so carefully tips the bottle. It makes a delicate little gurgle as he quickly turns it back up, pushes the cup over to Sou. The _maybe_ quarter-full cup. If he squints.

Sou sees what he’s done, eyes flicking down and doing a little quick measure and back up, and Haru watches a temper tantrum and a laughing fit fight it out across his face. It’s subtle, but if you know the guy, it may as well be a video screen 20 meters high in the Ginza. And it’s so damn funny he’s hit with the giggles – _hard –_ so hard he’s compelled to put himself face-down in Sou’s lap to ride them out, shaking and quivering and basically totally out of control. Sousuke lets him. And his eyes are wet as he struggles up, chest hitching, little stray giggles still falling out. The big man has a “oh, dear GOD” look but he can’t wear it all the way – with a corner of his mouth crooking up like a little traitor.

“You done?” he asks Haru.

“You think I should consider bartender school?” Haru asks, shoving himself back into the cushions with a _whump_ when his abs won’t follow his orders. “Or should I not quit my not-dayjob?”

“…hell, that’s a whole other topic we shouldn’t talk about now, not to get all grabby and steal your question,” Rin says thoughtfully, looking so comfortable as he lounges, feet crossed on the coffee table, Mako’s arm draped over his shoulders, holding his cup aloft like some sophisticated sake enthusiast. He even takes a tiny civilized sip that’s so polar-opposite his sorority-girl first shot, Haru starts giggling again. “So Mako and I are, as you know, outta work. Thank GOD. I’ve never been so ecstatic to NOT see a bunch of dicks. Present company excepted.” He does a big wink at them all and Haru snorts, kicks his crossed feet. Rin lets him.

Makoto looks unexpectedly serious as he takes over. “We’re in very good shape, financially – we’ll be just fine while we figure things out,” and he’s really talking to Sousuke, it seems, which is no surprise given who’s apparently bringing what to the room. “I think what’ll be really important is – maybe just getting your help, guys, in trying to decide what we’re good at, if we could maybe even go to school. Neither of us did, that would be really scary … and exciting!” His eyes get big and Haru wants to struggle over there and grab his face and kiss him, but he doesn’t want to mess up his cozy setup with Rin, and he isn’t sure he could get up anyway…

…then Sousuke says it.

“How about couples counseling?” he offers, and his voice is light, so sincere. He’s smiling at Mako, his pretty smile, his eyes bright, like he just had the greatest idea and just has to share it. “You would be a _natural,_ Makoto. You could focus on infidelity issues. Your clients would REALLY benefit from your, uh, _wisdom_ in that area.”

AND there’s a silence so thick, it’s like they’re in a sci-fi show and someone just flash-flooded the apartment with molten amber. Just – stuck them all in a state of perfect, frozen, suspended animation, Haru blinking incredulously at the happy sincerity on Sou’s face, watching across the table as Makoto’s face melts with dismay, Rin’s solidifies with an almost biblical fury. And he knows, can _feel_ his own deadpan, because he simply … can’t … believe his ears.

How _dare_ he. How dare Sou jump on Makoto, a man so good, his picture is probably in the dictionary under the word “ethical.” How dare he turn this weird possessiveness around on him, and not to _HARU,_ where it fucking belongs if he has a problem! And isn’t that the entire point of this whole – _thing_ they’re building? To sidestep around all this ownership bullshit?

Somehow Haru’s able to fight through the fog enough to fumble a hand onto Sou’s forearm, squeeze hard. “…what the FUCK,” he starts – but Rin is sober and far, far faster.

“Okay. Time out,” he says, and his voice is smooth and cool as an Olympic bobsled run, and he gently eases Makoto’s arm off as he shifts to the edge of his seat. Sets his sake cup down with a click. “Sousuke, we talked about how _bad_ we all needed to have a talk, right? Well, clearly that talk better happen now, or I don’t know if this thing is gonna work out. And honey, I agree with Haru and Mako. I REALLY want it to work out.” He pointedly turns to assess how Mako’s doing, and seems satisfied that the look of dismay is almost gone, replaced with a narrowing of Mako’s jade eyes, firming-up of his lips. Determination.

Then Makoto’s taking over, beaming those eyes straight across to Sou with such intensity, Haru can only stare at him, like he’s under Mako’s power too. “Sousuke … I’m so sorry. I can only imagine how it must have felt, watching us leave so casually, not even having the decency of letting you know what we were going to do. That’s – that’s rude, and that’s not the right word, but I can’t think of a better one.” He flicks his eyes to Haru, and what Haru finds in that look is so bald, intimate, he’s overwhelmed, and he looks swiftly away.

“…You’d think I’d be desensitized to this sort of thing, right? From the stuff Rin and I saw, guys doing all kinds of things to each other, stuff I’d just as soon forget.” He’s looking down now, at the table with their little grouping of cups around the fancy sake bottle. “But I never got over it. Whenever I saw each new guy doing something else to Rin, I’d – I’d wanna kill them. Every one of them. Even though we were all getting paid at the end of the day.” Rin tips his head over and rests it briefly on Mako’s bicep. “So … I think I have some idea of what I did to you, and I’m _so sorry_. Especially ‘cause it’s Haru. I know why anyone would want to – to protect him, keep him safe.”

“Hey, am I chopped liver here??” Rin grouses like a stand-up comedian from the ‘50s, abandoning his affectionate lean to whack Makoto’s bicep hard instead. He flinches and makes a little show of rubbing it.

Haru can’t stand it anymore.

“…wait, wait, wait,” he breathes, waving his hands in the air like that can erase the last five minutes. “Wait just one damn minute. Why, my dear, are _you –_ ” He stabs a finger over at Mako. “ _–_ apologizing for HIS issues??” He flips around to Sou, stabbing _him_ with what he hopes is his best death-glare, and is oddly satisfied by the definite way the giant flinches from him. And he can’t stop there; it feels like someone stoked a fire somewhere in his gut, and it’s _raging,_ blazing up through his chest and into his mouth, setting his eyes crackling out at this man he loves, this man who doesn’t get it.

“Mako and I had sex. You and I have sex. I don’t feel any more or any less for either one of you – I love you both _endlessly,_ and differently, and that’s the best fucking thing in my world. That is the fucking reason to go on LIVING, I think.” Sou just blinks at him, eyes bigger than he’s ever seen. “You’ve had sex with Rin, now, if we wanna go by the definition of having an orgasm together, you’ve got a chance to see how beautiful he is when that happens, and God, don’t you wanna do that again now that you know? I sure as shit do.”

“Haru…” Rin whispers from his perch on the other couch. Sou’s still silent as the grave in front of him.

“Who the fuck made the one-man one-woman rule? Or one-man one-man??” Now Haru’s out of control, he’s tipped over some line he basically never crosses, it’s the six fucking shots or whatever and it’s the stupid fucking man next to him, it’s all the _feelings_ he’s so shit at, swirling around in his head like angry bees. “I fucking LOVE you, you idiot. I love ALL of you. Who said we can’t all love each other together?? What fucking authority decided that was wrong, evil, whatever? We only live once, right? Why can’t we fucking spend that life being happy together, loving each other??”

…and he’s done. Whatever demonic force pulling those unknown puppet strings sort of snaps, and he falls forward, he can’t believe his insane fit right out of, yes, a bad romance novel. He ends up back where he started, face down in Sou’s lap, shaking all over with spent adrenaline…

And a big, gentle hand whispers down, smoothing his hair with such soft strokes, he could almost fall asleep if he wasn’t so keyed-up. He heaves an uneven sigh and turns to his side, where he’s sad and unsurprised to see his own tears falling from Rin’s eyes, at three-times the rate, Makoto resting his cheek on Rin’s bare shoulder and just gazing over at him in Sou’s lap. Another silence, but this one so different – this one a _quiet_ instead, an almost kind sensation hanging in the air, the terrible freeze from just before melting away.

Sou’s hand stills for a moment, then finally, he’s speaking. “Makoto’s right, you know,” he starts, slowly, and even here, in this time of unparalleled seriousness, Haru snorts again. He apparently will always be … Haru.

But Sou’s unfazed, and continues on. His hand keeps just … petting through Haru’s hair, almost hypnotically, and in any other situation Haru would be falling asleep. Instead, it’s unwinding him, stroke by stroke. “He said he knows why I get all protective about you. Like – he knows what’s so special about you. So I think, somehow, he just – gets you, and I don’t know how, or why. And that scares the shit out of me, Haru… because – because I thought _we_ were building that up together. That we understood each other. And now I really don’t see how that can be, when you have such a special thing so fast with … with him.” He stops, suddenly, and Haru flips in his lap just as suddenly to look up at him, see his face…

…and Sou’s face is fixed straight down, almost pinned to his, and his mouth is a flat line, and his teal eyes are over-bright with tears.

Haru’s sliding up before he knows what he’s doing, awkward and too-fast, scrabbling his way backwards to sit sideways in Sou’s lap. Wrap an arm around his broad back, use his other hand to tip Sou’s big head to face him. He wants to lay kisses on every centimeter of that beautiful face, wipe the sadness completely clear, but he just keeps a hand on his cheek. Gazes into Sou’s swimming eyes.

And suddenly he knows what to say. “Okay. Sou. When it rains, do you get worried the rain will run out?” The beautiful face just gazes at him in mild confusion, and he sweeps on. “…No! Of course not, that’s fucking stupid! The rain keeps coming, and is … bountiful, and you can always count on it being there.”

“Except when it’s sunny. Or a drought.”

Haru growls at the rejection of his Eureka moment. “Oh, shut up. It’s monsoon season, then, okay wise-guy? The point is that my love is the same way.” He hushes, brings both hands to cup Sou’s cheeks, and gets a wild thrill that the confusion is gone from his face. “It’ll always be there, and you can count on it, and you don’t have to worry.” And he leans in, fits his lips to the big man’s for a soft kiss.

Sou’s eyes are practically _glimmering_ when they split, and he doesn’t let Haru get far, grabbing him by the back of the head and bringing their foreheads together. Just holding them like that, thumb sweeping through Haru’s hair.

“…Okay, I have to know something then,” Rin demands, and Haru just _knows_ this will always be true, Rin will _always_ bust into tender moments demanding something, and he thinks that’s probably fine. He pulls back from Sou’s tight hold, sees Rin busily refilling Makoto’s cup, leaning over and topping off Sou’s, too. Makoto lifts his and looks expectantly at Sou, who slowly releases Haru, is gravely serious as he picks up his full cup. They lock gazes and sip, like partaking in some ancient ritual. “So. Haru goes off with Makoto and you throw this totally epic shit-fit. Yet, Haru gives me an Olympic-quality blowjob our first night together and you don’t say boo. Then, last night when we went out we’re on the dancefloor and I’m all over him, I’m feeling him up, we’re making out, _in public,_ the whole nine yards.” Haru’s darkly amused at the instant _interest_ that smacks into the faces of their two big men.

“What the fuck is the difference??” Rin finishes and triumphantly pours himself a full cup, downs it. Apparently sake-drinking conventions are now officially out the window.

“’Cause that’s basically like watching your girlfriend get with another woman. It’s a total turn-on,” Sou answers immediately, like he’d already thought it out, and Rin gets a _…what_ look. “Whereas Makoto, he’s like seeing Haru getting taken by another dude – someone big, strong, a threat.”

“Someone who could replace you,” Makoto says, nodding with great compassion at him.

Now _Rin’s_ doing the wave-your-hands-in-the-air-to-erase-past-events thing. “…Um, _excuse_ me? I’m like a _girlfriend_ to you? Even though I was getting my cock sucked in this scenario?”

“Don’t feel bad, Rin. He’s thinking of me as a woman, too. Nothing to be ashamed of,” Haru tells him. He’s weirdly enjoying this Happy Fun Insight Hour they have going on. It’s about as comfortable as surgery without anesthetic, but there’s something freeing about finally _hearing_ this stuff. Learning he’s basically been Sou’s little bitch all this time. And somehow, he’s okay with that.

“Um, WHY do the big muscley Hulk Hogan dudes magically become the dudes, and like me and you – who are PLENTY STRONG by the way – play the chicks, by default? Are we really making this some stereotype factory??”

“Rin, you’re adorable. And you’re totally overreacting,” Makoto tells him, pushing Rin’s cup out of the way to preempt any more sake consumption.

“Yeah… well, it’s what I do,” he grumbles back, apparently out of gas on the issue.

“…there’s … uh.” Haru stops his mouth, his mind and body and everything else somehow so relieved that they’re finally sharing, that they had somehow banded together to dump his biggest secret. Without his consent.

“…yes, Haru?” Makoto asks, smiling over at him, Rin glancing up with interest too, seemingly keen to the scent of fresh emotional / informational blood in the water.

Haru stops, staring down at his hand resting in his lap, the dense luxurious weave of Sou’s bathrobe suddenly deeply fascinating. What… what will this do? Will it be the last block on the teetering tower you’re sure, _sure_ will balance just fine, only to send the whole damn thing crashing to the ground?

“Spill, you pain in the ass! Secrets BAD, right? Look at the bad shit keeping secrets did to Sousuke!” Rin reaches slyly for his cup and Makoto just as slyly pushes it further away.

Haru makes hard eye-contact with Rin’s blood-reds for a second, and somehow it steels him, gives him the little push he needs. He feels his arm tightening almost unconsciously across Sou’s back.

“…so you really need to know everything, given that things are such a … totally big mess, you have to hear it all. ‘S way, way overdue too, and that’s probably the biggest reason I haven’t told you.” He collects every bit of his will and wrenches his head up, and Sou’s so close, _too_ close, looking at him with such … _waiting_. “I’ve been with you, Sou, all this time, as we’ve gotten deeper and deeper into this. And now we have you two.” He doesn’t switch his gaze since he’s afraid he won’t be able to come back if he does, but he knows without a doubt that Makoto and Rin are listening.

“…and all this fucking time, from way back long before the project, I’ve known somebody else. And I love him, too.” His words come falling out, and he isn’t even sure what he’s saying, if he’s saying the right things, if he’s even saying enough – and Sou’s face, so near to him, is _changing,_ in a way he can’t dispute given their closeness.

“Have you been playing me all along, Haru?” he asks, quietly, and Haru’s seen faces like this before, on serial killers in his beloved horror movies, and it’s wrong, he’s doing this totally _WRONG._

And for maybe the first time, ever, in his crazy life, he wants to pounce, jump on the moment instead of letting it careen by, make this thing RIGHT.

“NO, Sou, no,” he insists, and he doesn’t mean to exclude the other guys in the room, they’re just as important here – but the question is different, the stakes are different, Rin and Makoto were operating under a totally different set of rules than he and Sou when they came in the picture. And he knows without a doubt it’s SOU he has to win over. If he can.

He twists in the big man’s lap, curling a leg in so he’s fully facing him, head swimming at the sudden move, and he just _grabs_ his face in both hands. Sou lets him, which in a way is just as scary as his murderer face – this passive rigidity, this _I don’t give a fuck what you do_ feeling that Haru has to shatter.

“His name is Shigino Kisume. We met over tumblr – we both have blogs, I post my art and writing, mostly. He really liked that and we got to exchanging notes there.” He pauses – wonders how in the HELL he can say the next bit without sounding like a pedophile or at the least a pervert. “He’s a college senior in New York City. 21 years old. Nicest guy you’ll ever meet. Beautiful, too.” Haru swallows; he could swear Sou’s murderous look wavered, particularly as the words “New York” left his mouth, but he’s so wound-up and driven to finish, he can’t be sure.

“I … I know that he’s beautiful ‘cause we eventually switched over to Skype. We – did things, there, just audio for the longest time, I didn’t want things getting real.” Sou makes a little scoffing sound, but this time the relaxation of his angry mask is unmistakable, eyebrows falling, eyes widening, mouth softening. “I didn’t want _anything._ I had no motherfucking interest in getting close. To anyone.”

Then he’s hit with a memory, two incidents merging into a coincidence in his head. “…but … but one night I had this dream. It was right after our first meeting, Sou – we walked out of there, and I was all sorta amused by your Manly Manliness, and sorta intimidated, too… And I had this dream that night, I think it was the first wet dream I’ve had in – well, since being in high school…?”

Rin’s just _laughing_ behind him now, his _huh-huh-huh,_ and Haru’s totally unsurprised at the sort of thing that is bound to float Matsuoka’s boat. And BINGO, Sou’s full-on smiling too, a closed-mouth, crooked thing. “Wet dream, huh? That’s juvenile of you. But hot. So what was it about?” he asks Haru, and two big hands have migrated down to cradle the curve of his ass … gently. Suspiciously gently.

“Well that’s funny too. I remember clear as day. It was a lame-o cop interrogation thing, I was naked, you were the sergeant –” Nodding unnecessarily at Sou, who raises an eyebrow. “Room full of smoke, single lightbulb and chair, whole clichéd bit. I … I think you were questioning me to see if – my dick was big enough…?”

This time the bray of laughter is shared evenly by all present, and Haru would be pissed, but he’s in agreement that it’s a total fucking ridiculous thing fully worth laughing at. “So: verdict?” Sou asks, and he _leans_ them forward, until Haru’s tipped back in his lap with a hand slid up to support his back, the unknown parallels to the dream making him smile.

“Well. That doesn’t really get resolved. I end up in your lap in the chair as I jack off, making you watch. Basically.” Haru shrugs in his near-horizontal position, watching with some enjoyment as Sou flat-out gulps.

“…so you had this totally hot dream about Sousuke, Haru,” Makoto prompts from behind them, and Haru wants to giggle at his powers of group facilitation. “Let me guess. Did that get you so riled up, you had to connect with this … Kisume using video for the first time?”

Haru drops his head down in disbelief, staring at Mako upside down. “Omigod. Were you there, Mako??”

Sou’s rocking them both back – and turning them, so Haru’s still cozy face-front in his lap, but they’re side-by-side on the couch, and can easily include Makoto and Rin in their conversation too. “I think he’s just perceptive, Haru,” Sou says, patiently.

He pokes Sou’s chest petulently, but relents and rests his hands there, remembering how good that feels. “You’re both right. I couldn’t go back after we did video that first time. And actually, we haven’t had a chance to talk much since then.” He snorts. “It’s been, oh, _a little busy_ here. But I told him I love him. And – I told him about you, Sou.” He rubs his hands up and down the hard muscles he knows so well, absently. Doesn’t look up; he’s suddenly shy, which makes zero sense with all the soul-baring that’s gone on here already.

They all just sit, the penthouse in silence as Sou apparently passes-up his ample chance to “speak now or forever hold his peace.” Haru keeps his focus firmly forward on his slim hands, Sou’s pectorals; eventually he feels the hands at his ass, at his back tighten, draw him in closer, and lips come just to rest on his forehead. Haru releases a shuddery sigh he didn’t know he was holding.

“…does Kisume know about us?” Makoto’s asking, after some unknown period of time. Haru blinks, lifts his gaze from the safe little cocoon, and finds his other big man now the one sitting alertly, right on the edge of the other couch. Rin’s hanging back, looking confused.

“Nope. I haven’t even talked to him since our whole – thing happened. Though –” Haru pauses, smiles fiercely as he really puts the pieces together for the first time. “Though, in a way Kisume’s the one we have to thank for it happening it all. Thank, or blame… I was so down after the coffeeshop, and was talking to him, and – basically we exchanged confessions. And _he_ was the one who was totally open about the idea of … of more than one person loving each other, at the same time, and that just being no big deal.”

Sou scoffs, though there’s no nastiness in it. “College students.”

“Okay, _grandpa,_ ” Haru replies, screw it that they’re the same age, _Grandpa_ is a state of mind.

Makoto’s absolutely _beaming_ at them. “I think we need to meet this beautiful, nice college senior, get a feel for him, see if we … click. What do you guys think?” He turns his _look_ at Sou, 1000% Persuasion, sweeps it over to Rin as well, though somehow he changes the tone for his boyfriend, makes it more – conspiratorial? Haru has no fucking idea how he’s able to do that, and he’s a little afraid of Makoto’s powers, but he’s just glad the superhero is on his side.

“Sou’s giant-screen TV in the entertainment room has Internet,” Haru pipes out without thinking, and that’s it, he’s pretty sure they’ve just set up a little meet-and-greet that could devolve (…evolve?) into a private sex show for his very own tumblr/Skype buddy.

…that is, if Sou approves…?

Giant sigh next to him, but a funny sheen in his turquoise eyes. “So. What’s the time difference between Tokyo and New York again?” he asks.

***

Holy DAMN what a lotta talkin’ and emotin’ and just ARRGH! This was actually a sorta scary chap to write, cause there’s no greater kiss of death for a fic than the dreaded Characters Sitting Around Discussing their Epic Feels chapter :/. But it really had to happen for these guys, even if little glimmers of insight have already popped up previous to this, and HOPEFULLY felt like it just … developed naturally, instead of feeling too contrived. I would actually love to know how it struck you, if you feel like sharing ;)

I also must do a fast apology – Kisume was all set to make a (virtual) appearance here as you probably guessed, but the tone felt WRONG to pull him in this chap, when it’s really about Sou sorting himself out, and on a bigger scale, is the “Main Idea” of the whole fic. That is: really truly, why DO we limit ourselves to one person each? Why are committed poly relationships taboo? I totally get the good reasons why (no, I don’t condone people keeping multiple wives/husbands, actually, which probably makes me a hypocrite :P). But it’s just so funny to me. So Haru’s speech here which just happened, as they do, is really the whole point of this fic. Well – that and lotsa fluff, smut and snark, of course :D


	28. Hail-fellow-well-met

Hi everybody! I must say first I was honored to get another amazing piece of fan art, this one a perfect vision of Haru in his I’m With Stupid shirt from Ch. 12, being the snarkiest angel of all time. [I LOVE THIS DRAWING](http://maybeillride-changemylife.tumblr.com/post/113805881279/i-was-flabbergasted-to-see-my-fanfic-hipsterharu). Thank you dear [Irish_Cupcake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Irish_Cupcake/pseuds/Irish_Cupcake) for always being so willing to share your talents!! <3

Also, _finally,_ hang onto yer butts. Here comes Kissy! Thank you all for patiently waiting for him, hope he's worth it :D

AH! And this chapter is dedicated to TheGirlOnFandoms, without whom the various happenings probably would not have been possible. Thank you for your tenacious inspiration dear ... <3

***

 **hail-fellow-well-met** ( _old-fashioned_ )

A man who is hail-fellow-well-met is very friendly and pleasant, often in a way that you do not trust: _He was a hail-fellow-well-met sort of a man who'd greet you with a big slap on the back._ [**_Cambridge Idioms Dictionary, 2nd ed._**](http://idioms.thefreedictionary.com/_/gr.aspx?url=-cambridge.org/elt/elt_projectpage.asp?id=2501153) Copyright © Cambridge University Press 2006.

*

Kisumi gnaws the end of his favorite pen, staring at his screen. “Hail-fellow-well-met,” he mutters, rolling the supremely old-school sounding phrase around in his mouth, sort of tasting it like a fine wine (…he guesses?). The weirdo adjective had popped into his head and wouldn’t leave him alone, and he doesn’t even have a clue where the hell he got it from. Shakespeare? The BBC version of _Pride and Prejudice?_ Where Colin Firth comes out of that pond like some Greek _god,_ and he’s still in his clothes for Christ’s sake, but they’re so damn _see-through_ Kisumi wonders why people don’t swim in clothes all the time –

He drags himself back on track, shoving sexy-ass Colin Firth out of his head, and stretches back in his computer chair, groaning as the knot forming between his shoulderblades pulls. It’s only about 10PM. Ten PM, and he’s already feeling like this, developing kinks, and he’s gotta crank this sucker out for his Japanese Government/Politics midterm. A paper due in – oh – 15 hours.

No problem.

No worries that he’s so epically distracted, he’ll get about a paragraph of good progress then totally shoot off on a daydreaming tangent brought on by anything even REMOTELY sexual. At some point in an article about Prime Minister Koizumi the editorial writer says (cheeky, especially for Japan!) “his time in office is so long, one wonders what else might be oversized?” and Kisumi’s attacked by an army of oversized dicks marching straight out of his porn collection. Any of the usual debate-club words he comes across – _relentless, driving, hard-hitting –_ are a fucking nightmare too, ‘cause then he’s in a 3D-IMAX fantasy of his own creation without at all intending to.

And the stars of this little fantasy are he and Haru.

 _Godddd_ it’s all Haru’s fault, this like rampant out of control totally disruptive (even for him!) horniness. All of it, all of it, all of it! Of course, he’s often thought about Haru when they aren’t together, shooting flirty IMs back and forth, his writer-man’s wit so hard it practically leaves tracks on the screen. When they aren’t trading tumblr reblogs in real-time, piling comment over comment over comment so nonsensical and crazy, total strangers reblog the whole damn thing while the original poster shoots them a scathing “get off my lawn, assholes” note. When they aren’t doing this brand new thing, stripping like they’re the world’s most-amateur seated exotic dancers and locking eyes through their webcams … somehow making this totally sweet moment of “US” out of what should be just two dudes jerking off. Alone.

But – it’s been different since Sunday. Since they talked, finally came out with how things really are between them. How they’ve _been …_ for who knows HOW long. And – then, they of course had to share another “dual jerk-off session” … with Haru fingering himself, too … but if it wasn’t like two guys alone before, it was – it was fucking honest-to-God _sex_ on Sunday. They fucking had sex, he in Manhattan, Haru in Tokyo, morning, night, didn’t matter, and no – it wasn’t just sex, they fucking _made LOVE._

They confessed love, then they made it, and it sort of blew Kisumi’s mind, ‘cause damn – he’s done plenty of stuff with lots of people already, he’s a free-lover, but this? He’d never done this. Never had it matter. Never done it with someone he wants to keep coming back to and back to and _back_ to like some weird, specific sex addict. Never seen someone’s face look like Haru’s did after he stopped spinning in his chair, sticky and panting, came back to center to see Haru just … _smiling_ at him, through the little rectangle, fully-clothed but all mussed and flushed and just –

_Gorgeous._

Hair splayed out all coal-black on his pillow, crazy, _crazy,_ his big shirt slipping off his shoulder, squinting at him in lazy pleasure, _affection,_ that little smile of his, practically trademarked his, lifting up higher on the left than the right.

And Kisumi wanted to dive right through his fucking screen and grab him off his bed and just kiss that smile right off his face.

 _“Fuck_ it,” he sighs, more cheerfully than he probably should.

He totally gives up and heaves himself out of his chair for a full-on “break,” reaching to smack the wall as high up the lintel as he can as he leaves his room. The old brownstone’s floors do their creepy-ass squeal as he heads down the hall, passes Jai’s room, Momo’s. He’s singing some dumb song by the time he gets to the kitchen, some totally addictive garage rock thing from a girl group Haru loves loves _loves_. It’s been his fave thing to yell-sing around the Chinese-Japanese Language House for the past few weeks – the middle part, where the chick goes off in this perfect rapid-fire schoolgirl Japanese, is freaking _Japanese!_ So it’s, like, topical. Plus the song’s about ANIME, which is also totally topical.

The coffee grinder drowns him out for about ten seconds then he’s back. “Anime phenomenon! Japanese anime phe-nom-en-on!” he sing-yells tunelessly, dumping the grounds into the maker so fast he almost sends them into the pot, but recovers it in time. He’s filling the pot with cold water when the front door slams. Momo.

“Big brown eyes, small snub nose, curly long hair with a big big bun! Ma-un-ga character!”

He hears Momo moaning theatrically as he flips the lock then his shuffling steps come closer, and the big-eyed redhead is leaning in the door to their teeny kitchen blinking rapidly at him. _The chlorine must be off again tonight,_ Kisumi thinks for a second, before launching back in.

“Mini skirts! Knee-length socks! Talking in the gym like pretty boys! Ma-un-ga character!”

“GODDDD Kisumi, fuck, can you, like, have a heart, or something? Maybe? Please?” Momo really does look pitiful, bloodshot, a lean so diagonal Kisumi thinks the doorway’s the only thing keeping him up. So he takes pity on the guy and shuts up.

“Poor baby. Coach killed ya tonight?” he says sympathetically, hitting the coffeemaker button, and going right over to fold himself around the guy. Yep. Chlorine smell’s so intense as he gets up over him, he practically passes out. His eyes must be _killing_ him. So THAT’s what their student facility fees pay for!

Momo makes some exhausted and inarticulate noise of protest but isn’t budging from Kisumi’s big hug. “Dude, ‘baby,’ really? That’s so _creeeepy._ ” Two arms wrap around Kisumi’s waist and he feels Momo lock his hands, and smiles to himself.

“Hey. You talk to Ai lately? How’s that fine-ass minx doing?”

“Um, dude, that’s my _girlfriend_ you’re talking about? God!” The backstroker shoves him off and he falls back, almost falls-falls, but does this neat little catch, laughing his ass off.

“They’re training me to like fucking notice things here, so I’m fucking noticing that she? She _fine._ She’s a maneater, Momo.”

Momo hee-haws at him, not a trace of respect for his senpai, as he digs around in the fridge. “You doofus. How the hell would YOU know if a … if a _woman_ is fine? You’re just after dudes!” He pulls out the milk, spins off the top and takes a big whiff, flinches. Puts it back.

“So?” Kisumi’s sorta enjoying this. It’s a FABULOUS little distraction from his paper woes, for one. It’s getting him off the “let’s-think-of-Haru-24/7” train temporarily, too, which is probably healthy, too. Probably. The old coffeemaker bubbles and wheezes as it struggles to shove the water through. He just leans back into the counter and smirks at his kouhai (yes, he likes using pretentious Japanese status-terms; no, he isn’t Japanese; so fucking what?).

Momo’s – really, really pretty _amber-colored_ – eyes bug out at him. “So! Cause! That’s – that’s! I mean, duh!” He just stares at Kisumi for a few beats, absentmindedly itching his head. _Chlorine._ “Cause! Okay, you see a dude, you go, ‘Damn, I’m gonna do _that.’_ You see a _woman –_ ”And Kisumi almost dies at the cuteness of Momo’s carefully-respectful language; oh, he has it bad, alright.

“…well, and you don’t go like ‘uh, DAMN, tapping THAT.’ You can’t. That doesn’t make sense.”

The geriatric coffeemaker makes its last death-rattle at the very end of Momo’s confused sentence, like it’s laughing at him. Kisume grabs a giant South Park mug out of the cupboard, fills it to the top; he’s relieved he takes it black, given that they’re apparently milk-free this evening. He heads over to his young colleague to impart a little wisdom on the subtle difference between sexual attraction and aesthetic appreciation, which he is a fucking kung-fu MASTER at. Tosses his free arm casually around his shoulders. Momo just looks at him openly.

“Momo, your mom’s hot, right?”

“Ugh, right, but – like, ugh!” The kid makes this ‘ugh-I’m-imagining-my-mom-naked’ face that’s freaking hilarious.

Kisumi’s had the pleasure of chatting with Mrs. Mikoshiba when Momo’s folks came to New York for his orientation, and he has _firm_ proof of her hotness. “See! You just proved my point beautifully. That’s how I feel about women in general. I can definitely appreciate when a woman’s hot. Doesn’t mean I have any desire to get with her.”

“You sure are _getting with_ somebody named HARU online lately,” the little shit pops off out of the blue, and even though Kisumi’s not an embarrassed person … hell, he walks around feeling the polar opposite of shame all the time, right?? Well – he feels it. Right in his cheeks, the heat of a telltale blush on his fair skin. _Fuck._

“…Uh, no, dipshit. Haru-KA.” _That’s not helping,_ he thinks distantly. Momo just smirks at his obvious and badly-hidden internal flailing. “…Haru is what HE goes by, ‘cause he’s a GUY, ‘cause I do GUYS, which is what HARU is. A guy.”

“Whoever. Sure sounds fucking hot anyway.” Bless him, Momo’s just like shining at him now – the guy has no appetite for hardcore teasing, which is nice. Makes it much easier for Kisumi to get him when needed. “So…? What’s HARU look like? No fair, you know Ai, I should get to meet your dude!”

“Ah, God help us,” Kisumi sighs, raising his brows as he releases Momo. Adorable kid just stands, itching and blinking expectantly, and Kisumi laughs helplessly at the sight. He affectionately pats the redhead on a shoulder. “We’ll see, my fine little friend. If. IF you’re good. Now you go take another shower – and scrub your ass like crazy, okay?”

Momo must really be exhausted, because he turns like Kisumi has him under some weird mind control, just shuffles dreamily out the door in the general direction of the bathroom. He really, really hopes the guy’s aim is OK and he doesn’t get back to his room to find a bare-ass Mikoshiba sleep-showering on his desk, or something.

Break well and truly over, he walks his vat of hot coffee back to his room, shuts the door behind him. Hears the _real_ shower sputter on next door and smiles to himself. The computer chair protests as he falls into it, leans back and just sips lazily for a few minutes, staring at the screen trying to drift back into an “academic” headspace. He isn’t sure if the break helped at all, but it got him out of the chair at least and that has to count for something.

Something is flashing obnoxiously on his screen and at first he wonders if his anti-virus software is going nuts, if all the porn-watching he does has come back to bite him. Again.

Then he sits forward in his chair so fast the coffee flies over the edge of his mug and his sweats get a bath. Not anti-virus. _Skype – incoming._

Coffee’s on his desk and headset’s on before he knows it, and he’s clicking “Accept”. Then the screen flashes as Haru’s window launches and Kisumi’s maximizing and there he is.

Haru, smiling back at him, his little shy smile, and he’s _blushing_ too, so hard Kisumi can’t stand it, and he’s so beautiful Kisumi grabs both sides of the screen as a reflex.

“Haru!” It comes bursting out of him so happily somebody else would be embarrassed, but Kisumi doesn’t GET embarrassed, _especially_ not to Haru. “Whoa, so soon, after our – our Big Confession, right? Wait, not having second thoughts, are ya?” He grins, just to let Haru know for sure that he’s kidding. Then he takes a good look at the screen for the first time.

“Ah, Kisumi, I could never have a second thought about you,” Haru smiles, and his voice is all sincerity, like his irony-circuit is temporarily busted or something, and Kisumi’s so glad. Sent and received. So he ISN’T crazy, then. Haru’s pausing, like he’s gathering his thoughts, looking down, and he’s in a giant old T-shirt with “Todai” across his little chest – and Kisumi knows that’s the University of Tokyo. He also knows two things immediately: Haru never went to college (and good for him, too); and since that isn’t an ironic-enough T for Haru to buy at a thrift store, can only mean one thing.

It’s the new boyfriend’s.

This … _Sousuke._ (Aggressive name? Masculine as all fucking hell, anyway. Haru fucking swimming in that shirt, no doubt there – so he’s gotta be as big as Kisumi is, maybe bigger…?)

And he suddenly realizes, as Haru finally, slowly looks up, he’s in some awesome man-cave place. Leather couch, bar dimly in the background, nice lighting. _Sousuke’s_ place, then. In the bar, or den, or whatever rich writers call their awesome shit.

_Wow._

“I have some news, Kisumi,” Haru says, slowly, and yeah – he guesses maybe that’s true, to get Haru to not only call, but to call from the b.f.’s?? His stomach dips dangerously, no matter how much he trusts this lovely man. _They … they can’t be getting MARRIED, can they?? It isn’t legal there!_ he pulls up and throws away … but that wouldn’t stop them from doing it somewhere else, Hawaii maybe … right?

“Well FUCK, Haru, cut this coy shit out, okay??” he yells, knowing Momo’s next door, not caring. He watches Haru’s eyes go big and leans back, hand on his chest. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to yell, baby. You just have me so freaked out. You … you’re over at Sousuke’s, right?” he asks carefully, and a low, almost rumbly voice says something offscreen Kisumi can’t understand. In response, Haru casually grabs something off a coffeetable in front of him – it looks like a coaster? – and just _wails_ it forward, towards the Mystery Rumbly Voice.

“Ow! Fuck, Haru!” yells Mystery Rumbly Voice. Two types of Mystery Laughter – one light and almost like pretty, one totally bro – fire-off in appreciation of Mystery Voice’s pain.

Kisumi’s laughing without even realizing he’s doing it, his own unique brand sort of pealing out and weaving nicely into the craziness already going down … and he has NO idea what’s going on, and he half-hopes Haru fills him in, but for the moment he’s OK with this weird, strangely nice moment.

Haru’s scoffing. It’s _so very Haru._ “ _Ugh._ Sorry. Apparently certain PEOPLE here never got taught the very-handy life-skill of like SHUTTING UP when other people are talking. Let’s try that again.” And he’s smiling into the screen again, but there isn’t a trace of shyness now – it’s his most-wicked little smirk, his nothing-good-will-come-of-this smirk, and Kisumi’s leaning _way_ forward. Again.

“Kisumi. Dear. Yes, this is Sousuke’s House that Porn Built –”

Rumbly Voice is interrupting again but this time Kisumi can understand him, clear as day. He must be practically yelling at Haru. “Romance novels are hardly _porn,_ asshole –”

Haru’s up so fast the image blurs a little bit … and in just a few seconds, he’s dragging a protesting guy into frame by one arm. Shoves him mercilessly on the couch – and suddenly, Kisumi feels himself hot, in the usual places, hot and starting to get heavy – because, _fuck._ Haru – Haru, pushing this guy around, this giant guy he hasn’t even had a chance to get a good look at, other than to see he’s _big._ BIG. And Haru’s just … got him under his control, like some S&M dungeon-master. And Kisumi can’t fucking help a thing, he’s seeing Haru in a little (no … tiny) black vinyl corset, thong, garter-belt, thigh-high boots, big-ol’ gloves. Spiked collar? Maybe a bad-ass Commandant hat with a skull on it. Makeup. And just tying this big guy up and just … staying _just_ out of reach, for _almost_ too long … then sinking down on him.

Reverse-cowboy, to the camera.

Just riding the _shit_ out of him.

Kisumi can’t help it. He moans.

“Haru – your boy OK there? He seems a little … unwell,” the giant named Sousuke, Haru’s b.f., Haru’s OTHER b.f. (???), says. But he says it really lightly, and he’s leaning back casually into his big leather couch. And – he’s also smiling at the camera, at Kisumi. This sly, crooked smile – almost like Haru’s, actually, though bigger.

No boyfriend behavior is happening on that couch, either. _None._ Kisumi’s surprised by how much he appreciates that. Growly Sousuke just leans, legs crossed – very male-model – in some sweats. The man could actually be a male model … Haru was right, back when he described him. The guy’s staring right through, from his Tokyo man-cave to Kisumi’s New York shitty student housing, and he guesses he should feel inadequate. Guy’s a mega-success. The anti-Haru, just like they’ve discussed.

And … but, Kisumi’s _not_ competition. That’s not what this is about. Not what _Haru’s_ about.  

And Haru’s just curled up, legs crossed, next to him, they aren’t even touching. And he’s just got a single-eyebrow raised for Kisume. Almost … an invitation, or a dare. And Kisumi’s never turned down a dare.

“Ah, Sousuke-san! Sorry. I was just totally distracted for a second there. I was in the middle of the _best_ fantasy of Haru having you all tied up, and he in this like Rocky Horror/S&M black vinyl outfit …” He trails off, staring into space.

He’s totally delighted to watch Sousuke’s chiseled, angular face just like _fall_ like someone Tased him or he got a bad batch of Botox, and to hear the two mystery-laughers bust out again under the camera. He’s starting to feel _very_ curious about _that._ But he just reaches for the South Park mug and slurps some luke-warm coffee, totally nonchalant.

Sousuke breaks first. Of course. “…well, so, what! What the fuck does he do to me?” The guy’s sitting forward now, and Kisumi trails his eyes idly down his powerful shoulders, the shadows under his pronounced pecs. This whole “no-touchy” thing’s flying out the window already, as he reaches out to squeeze Haru’s knee – and Kisumi isn’t even sure he knows he’s doing it. Which, oddly, makes him feel very powerful. Almost like the Wizard of Oz, or something.

He just keeps slurping away at his coffee, then drops the mug like he’s surprised. “Oh! Well, Sousuke, I hear you’re a fantastic writer. I bet you can just … imagine.” And he gives the big man a very deliberate wink.

…and God, God, Haru’s _laughing,_ he’s just shaking his head in delight, looking down and shoulders-shaking and his totally-peculiar chuffing little laugh just sneaking out of him, and Kisumi’s in love all over again.

“Okay. Well, THAT was fun. Thanks, guys,” he finally says when he can lift his head, looking from the basically-beside-himself guy next to him, back to Kisumi. “Sousuke, it’s my _extreme_ pleasure to introduce my dear friend Shigino Kisumi; Kisumi, I’m so glad you can finally meet my friend and writing partner Yamazaki Sousuke.”

Kisumi drops his snark, suddenly, feeling some weird, nice formality to what Haru just offered them. He sits up, quickly runs a hand through his messy curls like he’s meeting Haru’s parents. Smiles genuinely at the darkly-handsome man struggling to get himself back on track.

“Sousuke! Seriously, though, it … it is so, _so_ good to meet you. Haru – well, he’s talked so much about you, and about your project!”

Haru’s big gruff writing partner DOESN’T follow the script, doesn’t answer with “All good, I hope!” like every other person on Earth, basically.

No, he just looks over at Haru, seeming lost; Haru looks back, eyebrows up.

“He’s talked about me?” he asks, looking back at Kisumi.

Kisumi frowns. Duh, of _course_ Haru would talk about his writing partner, even if they WEREN’T screwing! “Sure! He’s been so excited about you guys’ work. And he’s talked about what a good guy you are, how you’re … tough, but really like good for him.” He stops, a little surprised and maybe even embarrassed at how much he remembers – it seems so intimate. And it has nothing on what’s next. Sousuke’s staring at Haru now, like he knows too; Haru just keeps his eyes on Kisumi … but Kisumi notices Haru’s discreetly put a hand over Sousuke’s, where he’s holding Haru’s folded knee. And the little gesture makes him feel like some Japanese-American intercontinental gay-ass fairy godfather. So he dives right the hell in.

“Sousuke, we were talking over the weekend – it was Sunday for me, I guess that’s Monday for Haru. And … well. Shit. Basically, we figured some stuff out and said we loved each other.” He stops; he didn’t tell Sousuke that to be territorial; he just couldn’t see a way forward without sharing that bit. But – there are no big changes onscreen, no big pissed-off explosions, and he just _knows_ Haru did it. He came clean about them. And his heart surges so fast he leaps on.

“But then Haru said he realized he felt the same about you, Sousuke! That he loved us both. And he was in such a rough spot, just really feeling shitty about the whole thing. Feeling like he was being unfaithful to us both. And so I asked him, hey, why _wouldn’t_ both of us just love you? We’d kill for you! Right?”

He’s a little stunned when the big guy does this massive throat-clearing, looks away. “I might have said that, yes.”

“See?? So I told him, well, I wasn’t surprised I had to share him. I just wished I could be closer so I could, like, keep my eye on you properly, _dude,_ ” he says to Sousuke, through his biggest grin. “Little guy like Haru, I get the feeling he could use a little, uh, _interference_ from time to time against Big Bad You.” He leans forward to rest his chin in his hand, just reveling in the awkward pause spinning out on-screen. Big Bad Sou doesn’t try to dispute his charge so apparently he has something, then.

“So what’s your favorite thing about Haru?” Kisumi asks suddenly, really starting to enjoy this, and laughs again when Haru shoots him his absolute-best ice-princess look. “You obviously have the unfair advantage of, like, physically being with him and getting to like, touch him, hold him …” He has to stop, and the little guys onscreen let him, Haru’s coldness vanishing like it was never there. “But you also can just hang out, go to shows, eat his cooking! You’re so damn lucky, Sousuke.”

“He’s never eaten my cooking,” Haru says mildly, turning a curious look over to his couch-mate. Sousuke just glares back at him. And Kisumi’s starting to see a bizarre thing; size-wise, they may be opposites, like Tom and Jerry. But damn, he’s seeing _Haru_ all over this guy, in the way they both sit in this almost haughty, sort of bitchy silence next to each other, their sarcasm, God! Those glares. He starts giggling into his hand and when his mind draws-up their two nasty-ass glares side-by-side, he snorts. And Haru isn’t even really like that to _him!_ Apparently it’s some airborne reaction that’s unique to he and Sousuke, or something, and it is fucking HILARIOUS.

Now they’re BOTH glaring at him.

“…well, I can tell you guys don’t feel like sharing, and that’s OK, so I’ll just go,” he grins. “I … I guess I can’t choose a favorite thing about Haru because I haven’t got the whole package –” … _yet,_ his brain blurts, but he doesn’t say. “…But, it’s also just really hard ‘cause Haru’s fucking complicated! He’s like a layer cake with like a hundred levels or something,” and Haru does a hard _pffft!_ but Kisumi knows it’s true. “So I’m gonna do a total cop-out here and say my favorite thing about Haru is that he exists at all. The world is a WAY more interesting place with him in it.”

Haru’s flipping his head to Sousuke so fast, Kisumi fantasizes he almost sees a blur, which he knows is ridiculous with digital, but _seriously._ “I _told_ you. Didn’t I tell you about him?” he says fiercely as he pokes the big muscle-man in his pumped chest, and Kisumi’s stupid romantic heart swells, and Haru’s flicking his head back to the screen. He hears Mystery Voices 1 and 2 again, for the first time, murmuring softly and discreetly below the camera; both voices musical, almost pretty; asking Haru something, it seems. He holds a hand up – _wait, almost,_ that hand tells Kisumi.

“I’m stealing your answer, Kisumi. _You’re_ complicated too and I’m so happy _you_ exist, too, though I’m just fucking mad that New York is the one who gets you and not … us,” Haru tells him, very seriously, beaming those giant eyes right at him, and Kisumi’s breath catches in his throat as he opens his mouth. But Haru’s faster, for once.

“And I think it’s finally time for that news. Can you stay on a little longer?”

 _Is the Pope Catholic?_ Kisume thinks – FUCK his midterm, he’s on break, dammit. “Uh, _yeah_ I have time, what a dumb question, Haru!”

“…well I figured since you were probably _studying hard_ when we called and I was _corrupting your educational advancement…_ ” Haru goes on, his voice dripping with sarcasm and plain-old smut, and Kisumi wants to laugh at the irony but doesn’t want to delay Haru’s reveal any longer.

“Just spill, ya tease!”

Haru’s back to smiling at him, and then he’s switching his focus, down to where Mystery Voices 1 and 2 have been waiting so patiently. ( _Un_ like Sousuke, who apparently has the self-control of a chihuahua.) “Okay, guys,” Haru says, then there’s shifting and arranging and a little chaos on-screen…

…and Haru and Sousuke are suddenly bookended by two guys. Two – _hot as fucking hell_ guys, settling into the apparently plush couch and just BEAMING at the screen like they’re meeting the Dalai Lama on an exclusive remote hookup.

“Hi, Kisumi!!” the taller guy, nestled next to Sousuke, calls sweetly to him, giving him a friendly wave. “It is just a delight to meet you!”

–AND HE KNOWS this guy, oh my _God,_ he’d know his sweet face in an instant. Which is pretty fucking shocking that he can recall his _face,_ given all he’s seen this (very very talented statuesque _hnnng_ ) man do.

“Holy shit,” he interrupts, pointing at the screen like he’s I.D.ing a suspect in a lineup. “Oh my God! You’re Shachi! Oh my God, I’m a HUGE fan!! I … oh, God, I was gonna say ‘I love your work’ but that just sounds wrong.” He’s hit with the rare sensation of _embarrassment_ again, closing his mouth to stop himself from saying anything else. But the gorgeous Shachi just tilts his head to the side and laughs – so he’s the owner of the musical Mystery Laugh! – and Haru does this fabulous eyeroll. Sousuke’s looking … sheepish?

“Asshole. How come YOU get all the fans?” the last guy growls from his spot with his arm around Haru, and Kisumi’s amused … amused and turned on, somehow, seeing them together, this other guy angular, almost delicate, punky. Looks so good next to Haru’s “fey-hipster” aesthetic, his mind wants to take _that_ trip down Fantasy Lane and he puts the kibosh right the hell on it. And then the final piece slots neatly into his brain.

“Hey! And you – you’re _Same!_ Oh, you guys are fantastic together! I can’t believe this!!” He gapes at the improbable sight of his Haru, tucked in with this separated-at-birth bitchy cowriter, bookended by two smokin’ porn stars. Whose work he certainly appreciates. “Haruuu, what the holy hell are you guys doing hanging with these porn stars??” His mouth just dangles for a second; he can’t remember how to close it. “I SWEAR dude, you don’t tell me anything!”

“Uh, EX-porn stars, actually,” ‘Same’ says with unmistakable pride. “Hate to say this to a fan, but you’re looking at a product that’s officially out of print. Or unavailable. Or something.” He tosses his head. “Hi, by the way – s’pose you could use some real names instead of these stupid-ass porn-handles we go by. I’m Matsuoka Rin, and my guy over there is Tachibana Makoto.”

“…’porn-handles,’” Sousuke snickers, and Haru smacks him in the abs. Kisumi sorta approves of _that_ whole aesthetic, too.

“IF I’m done being fucking _interrupted_ by the peanut gallery over there. Thank you.” Same-aka-Rin leans into Haru a bit more, grinning. “I agree with Makoto. It’s really good to meet you – Haru told us about you, that you’re one of the and-I-quote ‘nicest guys we’ll ever meet,’ which seems pretty accurate so far. And that you’re _twentyyy-one,_ ” he draws out teasingly, and Kisumi just blinks at the screen.

He recovers pretty fast, though. “Well, at least I’m nice and legal,” he reasons, and Rin’s falling into Haru’s lap laughing the total-bro laugh. Haru puts a hand on his back, absently.

“Thank GOD,” Sousuke mutters, while his own hottie Makoto asks, “Rin, really…?” so sadly, he sorta loves him right there. Rin’s giggles turn into hitching little snorts and eventually Haru gets sick of waiting and shoves him back up.

“Kisumi, this – this is the news. And this is … well, sorta where things get weird.” Haru pauses and pulls his legs up to his chest, almost angrily, hugs them. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing and I don’t know that any of us do, so please, honey, I’m sorry and forgive me. But I had to introduce you to all these guys because – well, we ALL love each other. Something we just figured out. And you should be part of it too.” His rapid-fire confession ends abruptly, then – “IF you want it, that is.”

Makoto is smoothly tagging-in like he and Haru worked this crazy speech out beforehand and he’s just following his cue. “Kisumi, this is a weird spot for you and I feel really bad about it. YOU were here first, you had Haru first –”

Kisumi’s barging in without thinking. “Hey man, with respect, _nobody_ ‘has’ Haru.”

“Ain’t THAT the truth,” Rin snorts.

“Let him go on, Rin,” Sousuke rumbles, and Kisumi blinks in surprise. What an unexpected ally (?)…

Makoto just smiles so heart-meltingly he could have all in a 3-block radius, gay, straight, trans, all ages and genders dropping their pants instantly. “I just really feel for you. And now you’re there, so far away from him, from everything, so it’s like you got screwed _twice-_ over. We … Rin and I, we were thinking if there was anything we could do just to … sort of temporarily ease your pain.” He shoots his smile down the couch. “Haru told us you guys like to do stuff with each other on here … _which,_ actually, is a very fucking hot image.” The smile gets a little wicked and Kisumi _loves_ it.

“Soooo… since you won’t be getting any new videos from Rin and I…”

“You wanna little show?” Rin asks, lazily, and hell, _yes_ he wants a little show. Never mind what it’s gonna do to his ability to focus tonight. Seeing _Haru_ already shot that to hell.

He spins in his chair so he can lean back, put his feet up like a corrupt CEO. His “entertain me” pose. “Hey, if you guys don’t mind working off the clock! You must not be union.”

There’s reshuffling on the couch again but Rin’s dorky-bro _huh-huh-huh_ shoots out. “Oh my God kid I think I love you,” the redhead almost yells, and Makoto’s pointedly staring into the screen to give him a sad head-shake. He grins back.

“…and wait! If you guys aren’t doing this anymore, what happened? How come? The money must be fantastic!”

Haru and Sousuke are exchanging instant looks as they squeeze in at the end of the couch and he gets that “separated-at-birth” feel again. Rin and Makoto are now sitting comfortably side-by-side, Rin looking at Makoto expectantly like “ _you_ wanna tell him?”

“It’s a very long story, Kisumi,” Haru jumps in earnestly. “I’ll tell you later, okay?”

“Sure! And…” And whatever he was _going_ to say withers and dies as he glances over, catches his first look at these two guys he’s watched in all kinds of lame porn scenarios, just tenderly enfolding each other as they kiss … they’re in _no_ hurry, there’s no rush to move it from Point A to Point B. The only concession to the camera is the way they keep turning toward him, like they have some sixth sense for where the camera is and they never block his view for long. _Professionals._

Rin’s moaning softly into Makoto’s mouth, with his long punky hair and pretty voice he’s so … _unusual,_ and Makoto’s carefully pulling his long legs up and over so he’s sort of sitting in Makoto’s lap. Rin’s trailing his fingers up and down the strong forearm that just holds him there, secure, and he’s leaving Makoto’s mouth to kiss his way down the far side of his face. And now it’s _Makoto_ who’s moaning, putting his head deeply back as Rin worries away at his neck, breathing out “…Rin…Rin…” A big hand sneaks around to play in Rin’s hair.

…and Kisumi’s officially feeling it. He was already hot before any of this insanity started, and now he either has to touch himself here or excuse himself. And he has no idea what the protocol is for an Internet sex-show – an Internet sex-show that’s free, where you sort of _know_ the performers…?? Is it OK to masturbate to that? Is that disgusting? Will HE be disgusting? He has no idea. So he just crosses his legs uncomfortably … and Haru _knows._

“Kisumi – I’m so sorry, I should’ve said. Please, please, don’t hold back, do whatever you want to do. This is YOUR show, that they wanted to give you, after all,” he tells Kisumi so sincerely, he practically wants to cry – and he finally notices that those guys have shifted too, Haru’s quietly sitting in Sousuke’s lap. It isn’t even sexual; it could almost be to save space for the two who have progressed to shirtlessness next to them. But there’s something so almost sweet about the sight, Haru looking so just … _at home,_ that Kisumi is fiercely happy. Even if it isn’t with him.

So – fuck it – he doesn’t say a word of reply, but shyly brings a leg up to shield himself, frees his throbbing dick from his sweats. Ugh, he’s already wet and it almost hurts to curl his fingers around himself, but at the same time it’s that weird hurt that feels so _good,_ as Rin – needy as all hell! – has Makoto shoved down on his back in the cushy couch. The black leather is making soft, rhythmic creaks as he straddles the big man, rocks over him, both still in pants but that an insignificant detail for the _I want you NOW_ passion they’re both pouring out at each other. Makoto’s big hands slide smoothly under Rin’s waistband, to squeeze his ass, work between his cheeks – then Rin’s _growling_ again, the guy’s like a fucking ANIMAL or something, jumping up to wriggle out of his pants, free his bouncing erection.

“ _You,”_ he snarls at Makoto and he has the big guy’s pants off where he lies, fast, and Makoto’s just as hard. And Rin dives back to where they were interrupted, wrapping-around the man with their position giving Kisumi a _perfect_ side-view of his strong, sleek ass, his thigh, as he tenses and relaxes, as he _grinds_ them together, and Makoto flexes up and grinds back.

And Kisumi’s trying not to pant, trying, but he’s always been loud and messy at this – UNLIKE Haru – and he’s biting his lip so hard it hurts.

“Kisumi, dammit, don’t worry about it! They wanna hear you _too!”_ Haru says then, and he can’t help it, a little cry slips out of him as he works his hand almost angrily –

As Makoto cups Rin’s ass, tucks his head into the shifting shoulder over him, chokes out “…Rin – !”

As Rin suddenly sits up, smacks Makoto’s chest like he’s a swimmer finishing a race or something, lets out a “Ahhh!” and finds his dick with one seaching hand, finishing himself off as Makoto pants under him, spent. Then Rin just sits like that for a while, breathing harshly with his head thrown back, hair trailing down, and the image is so fucking hot it nudges Kisumi over…

“Hahhh…ha…. Hahhh…” he breathes, ears ringing, finding himself sitting forward with his head buried in his folded arms on the edge of his desk.

“You OK? Hey! Kisumi?? Oh my god do we need to call an ambulance? Haru – what, what’s his address??” a frantic, borderline out of control voice is saying, and Kisume grins as he pants to hear Makoto. Unmistakably. The guy’s worse than his mom.

“He’s fine,” Haru’s replying so calmly, and Kisumi thinks _thanks a LOT, Haru,_ and sits up laughing. It’s hilarious – and sort of touching – how relieved Makoto looks to see him up and OK, and they _all_ seem glad to see him.

“Ohhh, HARU. OH, you got a good thing going, my little friend,” he says in his best _you sly dog_ voice. Haru just blinks at him. “I can’t believe you’re willing to quote-unquote ‘share’ these fabulous guys! I can’t believe you aren’t gonna hoard them for yourself!”

“Idiot,” Haru scoffs and turns away from the screen. Towards where Rin and Makoto are very leisurely helping each other clean up with some tissues from the table, he notices. Though, they _are_ pulling pants back on, he’s sorry to see.

“So what do you do?” Sousuke’s asking him, totally out of the blue like they’re at a cocktail party bullshitting and not, like, using Skype to produce live porn. _Glory glory Halleluia._

He frowns back. “Uh, ‘do?’”

Haru again. “He means ‘what’s your major,’ Kisumi. IF he knew how to ask like a fucking human being and not a NetworkingRobot,” he jabs, and Sousuke suddenly just _grabs_ Haru in his lap, gets one hand firmly around the back of his head, KISSES him like he’s fucking prospecting for oil in Haru’s mouth. Like he’s been behaving and can’t stand it anymore, like the “show” worked him all up, or maybe just because Haru’s indirect verbal abuse does it for him. Kisumi thinks he can relate.

Finally he releases Haru, who makes the cutest little “…mmmph!” as they separate. And Kisumi thinks he’s probably sick, but he could watch Haru get kissed again and again and again … and his head is spinning with all this NEW.

“Well?” Sousuke’s doing that lopsided smile at him, like he didn’t just interrupt his own question to attack Haru, and Kisumi shakes his head.

“You’re a bad, bad man, Yamazaki Sousuke,” Makoto – Makoto! – says from the other side of the couch.

“I’m a Journalism major. Gonna root-out all the evil in the world,” he says, striking his Captain America pose, that he always does as a reflex whenever he says something particularly dumb and over the top.

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Kisumi!” Makoto again, clasping his hands together like he’s imagining something magical, and Kisumi would laugh at him but he doesn’t have the heart. Rin takes care of it for him anyway.

“Yeah…. And, actually, I have some news of my own.” Kisumi stops, and they wait expectantly, _respectfully,_ and he can’t believe they’ve sorta perfectly arrived at this exact spot. When he can reveal to Haru – hell, to _all_ of them – what he found out today.

“…I was actually accepted into a graduate program in journalism. I start next April.”

Haru is just _glowing_ at him, climbing out of Sousuke’s lap (and getting a sour look) and kneeling on the couch. “Oh, Kisumi! God, that’s fantastic! I _told_ you you were fucking smart, you idiot.”

Makoto’s actually laughing at that for some reason and Rin’s kicking Haru in the side like a five-year-old, but Kisumi can’t wait anymore. All DAY today was way too long to wait to share this.

“It’s at Nihon University in Tokyo –” He watches Haru’s mouth drop open – Haru’s mouth _never_ drops open –

“…and my parents are flying me out for a campus visit. In two weeks.”

***

Kisumi, ladies and gentlemen. Here’s hoping he could get it together after all that to finish that paper…

I think this guy gets the “Adapts Well to Change” Academy Award. He’s just … amiable! Uh, and also a little Machiavellian, and mostly shameless, and pervy, and probably a lot of other questionable stuff that didn’t come up here. Guess that’s why he’s fun to write lol. Hope he was fun to read too!

OK OK OK … that Shonen Knife song that he picked up from Haru and was singing obnoxiously? LISTEN. TO. IT. I think it has to become [A Song of Our Anime People](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q71rq7Ao6Ac) <3


	29. Hot chocolate confessions

HI GANG!! It is the definition of pleasure to be with you again <3\. AND, to be able to share two incredible pieces of fanart with you!

The hysterically-funny and wildly-talented [sexywhales](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sexywhales/pseuds/sexywhales) took a throwaway moment lasting all of a sentence in Ch. 23 (when Haru gives a claaaassy b.j. to his finger instead of just flipping Sou the bird), turning it into a [beyond-adorable comic](http://maybeillride-changemylife.tumblr.com/post/114467602344/sexythewalkingcatfish-what-do-you-mean-this-never). Gal’s got mad skillz.

The heart the size of a planet master of RinHaru cuddles [demfeeeels](http://archiveofourown.org/users/demfeeeels) was continually bugged by thoughts of Haru’s tiny apartment, so took the initiative and [drew the lovely thing](http://maybeillride-changemylife.tumblr.com/post/114728146024/demfeeeels-maybeillride-changemylife) … and dangit, I wanna live there :’).

Thank you both, you ladies are truly amazing <333

And this chap and all its MakoRin-ness is dedicated to the lovely [WhyTheHandbasket](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyTheHandbasket/pseuds/WhyTheHandbasket), who's more supportive than a Wonderbra (gomen...;))

***

The screen looks so dark without Haru’s completely unexpected, out of left field, fucking _adorable_ secret boy, once the two of them finish their goodbyes, Kisumi grinning fiercely with the force of his news, Haru acting like someone just hit him over the head. Hard. The screen’s so dark without the cheerful disarray of his New York bedroom, a bookshelf behind him on the right with no two titles stacked the right way, what looked like a yukata covered in sakura tacked up on the wall behind him on the left. A thoroughly-American kid, but whose Japanese was _flawless,_ like he’d been speaking it his whole life, down to the slang and profanity, the good stuff Rin loved with all his heart. A Japanese-American kid in love with Japan.

A kid head-over-heels in love with Haru.

“Oh … my God. Omigod?” Haru says distantly, just staring at and straight through the dark screen like there’s something to see there. “Um. Omigod.”

Rin can’t take it. He can’t take the real-life romance that just car-crashed into the room via the Internet. He doesn’t know what adding Kisumi to their equation even means – he was always good at math, but they’ve all officially turned into a problem that’s probably unsolvable. And he also knows it couldn’t fucking matter less. Because watching that kid’s gorgeous face … love just fucking _poured_ from him, from those catlike eyes as they squinted in delight to see Haru for the first time, from his mouth that compulsively smiled and smiled, from his body language that all opened up to Haru, Haru, Haru.

Ugh, this kid has it so bad, Rin would feel bad for him – if it wasn’t just as clear (in his own cryptic and mysterious ways) that Haru’s got it too. Rin would know. He’s practically Professor Love … or Mako’s called him that on occasion, anyway.

“…Haru? Are you alright … honey?” Makoto’s saying from the end of the couch, adding his own favorite term of endearment so carefully Rin just _knows_ he doesn’t want to step on Rin’s toes. That’s what he and Rin like to call each other, after all. And it’s strange … that it doesn’t hurt Rin at all. Haru _is_ a honey. He deserves a little sickly-sweet Mako therapy. It always works for Rin.

Haru fixes Makoto with a glare but at least his zombie-stare is off the dark TV, which is a start. “Of _course_ I’m alright, Makoto. What a stupid question. Why wouldn’t I be alright?” he snaps – rather bitchily, in Rin’s opinion, but in true Makoto style his guy is totally unoffended.

“Oh, honey, you just had such a shock! That’s so much change for you – on top of all these other crazy changes, all of us barging into your life, messing it all up. And now you’re gonna meet your … your boyfriend for the first time!” Makoto’s leaning around Rin, giving his little speech so earnestly Rin almost can’t stand him, which is a common impression. He lays a hand on Rin’s knee as he talks. “You must hardly know _what_ to feel!”

Haru’s giving Mako this narrow-eyed _oh REALLY_ look – and Rin thinks _aha, so we’ve got a stubborn little fucker here, eh?_ and swings into his own brand of action. He slides across the cushy leather, leaving Makoto’s hand behind, ignoring Sousuke who’s tucked on the other side of Haru with his _own_ big hand fitted comfortably between Haru’s folded knees. Sousuke, who has a calculating look on his face and hasn’t said a word since the end of their little meet-and-greet. Goddamn these obnoxious still-waters-run-deep guys…

Rin doesn’t hesitate – just fits an arm easily around Haru’s narrow shoulders … like they’ve done it forever, since they were little kids. Gets right up close, snugged-in next to him, their faces so close they could be about to share a kiss. The beautiful blue-eyed man is still just squinting at Rin, dangerously; but he seems totally content to share his space, head-to-head, shoulder-to-shoulder, like he’s waiting for something. Something Rin can give him (?).

So Rin smiles at him, his crooked cheeky slightly-naughty just-between-us-gays smile. Haru gives him his bitch-face back. “SO! Kisumi, eh? Wow. I gotta steal a line from the kid, I can see perfectly why you were keeping him a secret, man. What … a … _babe,_ right guys?”

He’s way-too amused by Sousuke’s overdone _tsk_ and eyeroll as he (briefly) breaks an intent gaze in his and Haru’s direction, the dirty old man. Makoto’s at least kind enough to answer, piping up with a little confirmatory “…Babe central!” behind Rin’s back that has _Haru_ rolling his eyes this time. But he’s relaxed his face too, the edge is off his delicate features, and Rin gets a stab of happiness. He’s making Haru feel better.

He sighs contently, pulling Haru back with him into the soft couch, wrapping his other arm fondly around and weaving his fingers together at Haru’s shoulder. “Yyyyup. Babe central is right. Hot, and funny as all hell, oh my _God_ the way he kept ragging on Sousuke – ! Sousuke, baby, I think you’re slipping a little bit dear; you better work on that,” he helpfully tells the guy whose eyes are glittering coolly at him by now.

“Oh, I should work on that, huh,” Sousuke says mildly to Rin. He reaches out and slowly tucks a chunk of hair back behind Rin’s ear, casually, and Rin’s eyes widen; then the big hand continues down, wrapping finally around Haru’s stomach, so the poor guy is effectively being boa-constricted by _two_ big(ger) guys now. Rin rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, looks like you better, funnyman. ‘Cause this kid is _good,_ and he is COMING, and we all better put on our best game because I think he deserves it.” He stops for a second, losing himself in the memory of that connection, the way Haru and this New York kid made eye contact through the screen like it wasn’t even in their way. He finds himself slowly dropping his head to Haru’s, and their foreheads meet, and it feels so _right –_ like when they launched themselves into the air in their race – his eyes slip themselves closed.

He goes on, quietly now. “Haru, it was plain as day what a good guy he is, how sweet. And how much you guys – how much you _love_ each other. Like, the real kind, that can only build up over time. I care a lot about love, believe me I know it when I see it. And you gotta know that’s OK with us.” He tilts softly down, never opening his eyes; finds Haru’s lips easily, finds them open, maybe in surprise. Kisses him, very gently. Like he needed to seal this little promise.

Haru receives his kiss, then when they break there’s a weight on his shoulder, and he looks down to see Haru resting his head there, his soft, strong hair tickling Rin’s skin. The warmth bursting through his chest whereever they touch, spreading from his lips that just met Haru’s – it makes no logical sense, and at the same time can’t be denied. His smile is purely selfish then, as he kisses the top of Haru’s head and leans his cheek in Haru’s fluffy bedhead, full of nothing but fondness. To his surprise, it’s completely quiet in the room, for a dreamlike stretch. There’s just a little hum (of a fridge…?) behind the bar, the soft sounds of their breathing; Sousuke doesn’t bust in just to be an asshole, amazingly, and Makoto seems to sense the mood and just waits – for Haru.

Who’s not making any arguments back, or on the other hand any grand speeches about his immortal love (which, to be honest, Rin would be all over). No; he’s nestled-in, practically burrowing, Sousuke’s big borrowed shirt just rising and falling with his deep breaths against Rin’s chest. Like he needed this time to just … be quiet, to be touched.

Then Rin feels Makoto shifting behind him, his voice soft and hesitant as he begins, “Haru –”

And Sousuke’s phone breaks the spell of the moment, trilling away. Rin lifts his head from Haru’s, glances over at the man of the house, who looks like he’d love to grab a weapon and perform some violence on the thing as he stares over at it on the bar. “Do you wanna …” Rin offers.

“Screw ‘em,” Sousuke rumbles as it trills on.

Rin shrugs, feeling the odd _weight_ bleeding away. He flips a questioning look over to Makoto, who’s – _aha –_ hurriedly hiding a flustered look.

“Mako…? You okay?” he asks quietly, but he just gets a little smile back. _It’s nothing,_ the smile says.

There’s a loud click and a pleasant male voice boldly fills the room.

“Yamazaki-san! Hello! Oh, I’d hoped I’d reach you there, I’ve had no luck reaching Haruka-senpai and to be frank I’m starting to get a little worried. I’m just calling –”

“Ryuugazaki! Yamazaki,” Sousuke manages, having unhanded Haru and shot off the couch so fast Rin’s a little surprised. He didn’t know the big oaf moved that fast. On land, anyway. He lifts a single brow to the writer practically in his lap, who blinks like an adorable sloth or something as he slowly raises his messy head but at least is acknowledging the change in situation.

“Oh. Rei. Our editor. And one of my closest friends from high school,” Haru offers, and Rin’s other brow goes up to join his first. He turns to check Mako out and finds him equally as intent – and they seem to make an unspoken pact to shut up and eavesdrop on the rest of Sousuke’s conversation.

… _which,_ unfortunately for them, mostly consists of peeking back at the big man absently pacing and looking both irritated and guilty, both of which are totally entertaining to watch. Seems this Ryuugazaki Rei is a marathon-talker.

“…yes. No, please know we’ve been … working through some issues the past few days –” Here he pauses to shoot a blazing look at the three guys on the couch, his face so – so _raw_ Rin has to swallow at the unusual emotion there. At his almost scary ability to neatly sidestep and package such a crazy thing to his boss, essentially. “…uh-huh. No, nothing bad, I assure you. … Yes, Haru and I would be glad to. I think he’d really enjoy that.” Now his intense gaze is pinned firmly on his writing partner, and Rin wonders desperately what Haru just got signed-up for. Sousuke’s ambling over as he listens, gently tips Haru’s head into the couch to access his lips for a silent kiss. Right in front of Rin. Which is both rude and fucking _hot._

“…How about tonight? … I think he’d love to see you guys. I’ll get him started on a menu – you really don’t care what? … Okay. See you then.” He thumbs-off the call with a beep and rounds the couch to sit on the table, facing them.

Rin can’t take the suspense. “So you just pimped Haru out to cook dinner tonight over at your editor’s place? You can do that?”

He’s sad and a touch worried when Haru doesn’t swing into action as his other half, ganging up on the big man with him, but Sousuke’s answering (smugly) anyway. “Yep. And you and Makoto are coming too.”

Rin scoffs. “As what – part of the Adopt-a-Porn-Star program?”

Makoto sounds just as incredulous if predictably more-logical. “Oh, Sousuke. Is that – wise? You want to tell your … work colleague that you two are involved with us? What’ll we say when we get to the topic of jobs? You know, I’m actually an excellent liar, but Rin…” He shakes his head with giant eyes. “And do they even know about _your_ relationship?”

That’s apparently enough to briefly wake Haru from this … _daze_ he’s in, as he leans to send a sly smile over to Makoto. “I’ll have to remember how smart you are,” he says, and Rin’s a nanosecond from diving in to yell, hey, _he’s_ smart too! Top of his class, all of it! Then refocuses.

“So?” Rin demands, poking Sousuke in the knee. “DOES this guy know about you? About any of this?”

The two writers share a mysterious look. “No,” Haru finally says. “…actually, I’ve had my suspicions that this whole thing wasn’t Rei trying to match me up with someone, _anyone_ after my epic-fail dating history, and if he had _any_ suspicions about us he would’ve been trying to get us to do brunch already. Or couples’ yoga.” He stops his quiet little speech, and gets a look of weirdly-resigned horror. “His … husband, Nagisa – he’s gonna flip out. I’m just warning you. You guys may have to come in body armor.”

“Husband?” Makoto’s voice is soft, wondering – kittens and flowers – and Rin smirks.

“Founded the company, acting CEO. Good businessman.” Sousuke’s complimentary words completely do not fit the _death_ look on his face. Rin’s interest, already piqued, peaks.

“So what?? Are we in mortal danger or something?” he demands. Sousuke’s face lightens as he chuckles; Haru just worms deftly out of Rin’s embrace to stand, and Rin’s disproportionately cold at the man’s absence.

“No, no. He just loves guys, always on the lookout for hotties, wants me to be happy. Biggest gossip I know, actually. So put all that together and his head might explode.” Haru’s smile is soft and small, as he stretches next to the couch for a second. Sousuke instantly sneaks a hand around to cup his ass, almost like he can’t help himself, but Haru just shakes his head at him, smiling that tiny smile. He turns to leave the room and pauses in the door.

“I’d better get going if I’m gonna plan dinner for six. Rin, Mako, could I bum a ride from you if you’re heading home?”

Rin can’t help but note the little hallmarks of “loss” on Sousuke’s face before him, as quiet and undramatic as they are – the way he stares at the doorway like a dog watching his human go to work, his _lean_ in Haru’s direction. Like having Haru around is something the big doofus has gotten used to, maybe even sorta addicted to. Rin feels a little ache somewhere he can’t place, his throat when he goes to swallow, maybe; maybe deep in his chest. For Sousuke, for Haru, for he and Makoto. Kisumi. For all of them.

There’s no way this thing is going to be simple.

Rin glances over at Makoto and receives a little nod, stands with a theatrical stretch. “Hey, that sounds like a fine idea, actually. _People_ are conveniently forgetting the little free show we put on, here – and me most of all! That shit is aerobic! I’m not getting any younger!” He leans back, hands above his ass, groaning, like he’s 102. Makoto’s shaking his head, disbelieving, as he stands too.

Haru hasn’t budged from the door. “You’re right, Rin. Thank you. You both were so beautiful,” he says quietly, intensely, and that’s it – Rin’s past blushing into flushing, and he can’t pull together a reply.

Thank God for Mako, as usual, though (interestingly) he’s blushing prettily too. “It – it was our pleasure, Haru-chan,” he says, then fidgets in obvious embarrassment. Haru just gazes at him in his ridiculously oversized and criminally cute borrowed clothes.

“Well! We’ll see you at … Rei’s, was it? We’ll bring Haru, if he wants the ride,” Rin assures Sousuke, who’s slowly getting up from the coffee table. “Don’t worry, baby – we’ll shower and change. Promise not to embarrass you. Not THAT way, anyway!” He winks at the big guy, then – impulsively – leans in, puts his arms around his neck and stretches up. Lays a soft kiss on his lips, sees the surprise all over his angular face from close-range … and feels good. This wistfulness, this almost _lost_ look … that’s an expression that just doesn’t belong on such a brash, confident, obnoxious guy … and Rin feels better when he backs away to find it’s gone.

“Sounds good. Tell Haru to make whatever he wants,” he says quietly, bringing his arms around Rin for a moment to give him a tentative squeeze.

And the strong arms around him feel just so … good, like Makoto yet different, _harder …_ Rin sighs gently … before releasing his arms from Sousuke’s neck, before Sousuke releases him too.

*

“Rin – can I come in?” Makoto asks him, so hesitantly, as they idle in the trusty Honda, Rin about to jump out and head into his building. He turns back to Mako in surprise.

“Sure, baby! Of course! Though, I woulda thought you got _enough_ of me on the Skype call. Jeez.” He squints and gives Makoto a terrible duck-face, then smiles, because really how dumb can he get.

Makoto just smiles quietly though, and Rin _knows_ this is no booty-call visit. “Oh, you know I can never get enough of my Rin-Rin.” Leans across the stick to kiss the tip of his nose. “Just wanna talk, for a little bit – I know you need some alone time before dinner. Is that okay?”

“ _Duh,_ Makoto! C’mon! I’ll make us hot chocolate!” Rin says, exasperated, and Makoto breaks into a relieved smile, and pulls the car into a (magically) free spot on the street. They head inside, into the lift, Rin absently finding his apartment key on the ring; and there’s an odd tension between them that keeps them both silent. It doesn’t feel hostile or uncomfortable, but … it’s still different, from their usual easiness.

Makoto tries to follow him into his tiny kitchen – to help – once they’re in, but Rin scoffs at him, physically pushes him into the (equally tiny) living room, and soon he’s following the big man in, hands full of fragrantly-steaming mugs. The parallels to the novel suddenly hit him and he freezes as he passes Mako’s over, where he’s sitting somehow nervously on Rin’s ratty old couch.

“Rin…?” Makoto asks.

He shakes his head, slowly sitting next to Makoto, still lost in that completely-hot unintended art-imitates-life scene. “Mmmm. Just thinking of the part in _Brohicans_ when I cheer you up with the hot chocolate and you get all emotional.” He tries it but it’s still too hot. “Before you accidentally enter me, that is.”

Makoto pauses with his nose in his mug and gives him a _thanks a LOT, Rin_ look. “I … I think Michael just needs some practice. _Which_ we could help them with … by, modeling? Working through some – scenarios – with them?” He’s wearing a faux-helpful look now, and Rin verrry slowly feels a smile overtake his face, envisioning the possibilities. The _very serious_ late-night working sessions they could have. Maybe they’d need to record their – “brainstorming,” so Haru and Sousuke wouldn’t miss anything when they went to work their magic or whatever. He’s seeing some definite period-dress. The idea of Makoto in that totally-wrecked British officer’s uniform sends him staring into the random space over the real-thing’s left shoulder.

Makoto’s wearing a lopsided smile as he clears his throat. “Um. I guess that’s a yes, huh?”

Rin takes a lusty gulp of cool-enough cocoa. “I’m getting you in breeches if it’s the LAST thing I do.”

Makoto snickers. They’re quiet then, just taking contemplative pulls from their mugs, the silence somehow lighter and Rin grateful for it. But he can only handle so much patience, Makoto unable or unwilling to get to the fucking _point,_ before he’s leaning forward and gripping his knee so hard he hopes he didn’t hurt him.

“Well?? You can’t do this to me, Makoto … speak to me!”

And Makoto swallows – _hard –_ and Rin is suddenly afraid; but he’s pulling Rin’s hand off and holding it, and somehow that helps Rin feel better.

“Can … can we talk a little bit about Haru?” he asks Rin hestitantly – almost shyly – like he’s a teenage boy, maybe even younger. Not a thirty-year-old ex-porn star who’s done everything and everyone (practically), with Jedi-level people-skills to boot.

Rin blinks stupidly at him. “Talk about Haru. That has GOT to be one of the dumbest fucking questions of all time.”

Makoto actually _scowls_ for a moment, and Rin can only stare. “We _need_ to talk about him, Rin. Because I’m not sure if what’s happening here is okay, and I’m such an _asshole,_ and I think if we don’t figure this out, figure US out soon, I’m not sure if I can go on with this.”

Rin’s suddenly flooded with angry heat. “Go on with _what?_ Excuse me, HONEY, but are we suddenly getting all moralistic now?”

“I think it’s a little late for that,” Makoto sends back in one of his rare stabs of vicious sarcasm, and yeah, he’s right – they’ve pretty much burned every indecent-act bridge out there. Rin feels his sneer deflate, into a confused sort of frown.

“…oookay,” he says, finally, hesitantly. He carefully frees his hand from Mako’s and rearranges himself to sit cross-legged facing him. “Tell me. HOW are you an asshole now…?”

Makoto does the opposite, shifting to give Rin his profile, gazing at the dark screen of Rin’s TV like it holds his answers. His hands rest listlessly in his lap. “Isn’t it obvious?” he finally asks, and his voice alarms Rin, the very un-Makoto emptiness, hopelessness.

“Um. Not in the least.”

Makoto flicks his head back over to face Rin, so fast his shaggy hair does a runway-model little _flip!_ He looks almost livid with anger for an unguarded second. “It isn’t NICE to make fun of me, Rin. I’m trying really hard here and believe it or not it’s hard for me to admit when I’m wrong, too.”

“I’ll say it again! I have NO idea what the pity-party is about here, Mako. Sorry!” He shoots a high-power jet of air up to blow a bang off his forehead in a satisfying gust, wishing vaguely he was one of those guys (or hell, women) who doesn’t take this shit and just storms out when things get this dumb.

But he’s redeemed, Makoto collapsing in to face him, all fight gone. Face the picture of misery. And Rin’s doing all he knows – again – scooting forward on the bumpy couch to wrap him in his arms. Mako’s breath tickles his neck as he talks, no big-Makoto arms coming up to hold him in reciprocity. But that’s okay, somehow.

“This – this is just a big fucking _mess,_ Rin. Right?? I love _you!_ It’s so obvious, I’ve loved you since high school, even if I was too fucking immature to tell you then.” A big shuddery breath, and Rin mindlessly, gently strokes the broad, strong back he holds. “And I still love you. I bet there’s nothing you could do that could make me stop loving you.” Now Makoto’s lifting back in Rin’s embrace, eyes a little wild as they search Rin’s face at such close range, and Rin just floats on the feeling he always gets when Mako tells him he loves him … but knows there’s more to come, more about Haru, and holds himself back.

It takes Makoto a surprisingly long time to get it out, and his pretty voice is almost choked when he finally does, through tight lips. “So – so how can I love _Haru_ too?? Why, Rin? I’m sure I sound like a fucking idiot. Moron. But that’s not how this works. I can’t love _you_ my whole damn life –” And now he’s snaking his arms around, pulling Rin to him by his waist so hard Rin’s a little taken aback. “–and like KNOW you, and then just meet this other fucking dude from out of the blue and suddenly decide I love him too! That I _know_ him, somehow, after seeing him all of a week or whatever. What kind of _asshole_ does something like that??” He laughs, a mini-machine-gun sound that’s all darkness; seems to hesitate before taking something else on. “After sleeping with him all of ONE time. Oooh, good job with your decision-making, Makoto. Really adult.”

Rin laughs at him. Big and bright and TOTALLY amused. It’s a terrible thing to do given the genuine pain on Mako’s face, seeping into his voice, but he can’t help it and it’s out before he knows it. It’s just so damn _preposterous!_ THIS is what’s been eating Makoto up inside?

“…oh, honey, honey,” he says quickly, before the half-hurt half-pissed expression on Makoto’s face can teeter into all-pissed. “Oh, I’m so sorry to laugh, I just couldn’t help myself. _Really?_ You’re all like bent outta shape ‘cause you love us both??” And he’s a goddamn hypocrite in the running for Worst B.F. Ever as he chugs through another round of totally happy laughter. TOTALLY happy.

“Fuck you, Rin!! Maybe YOU’RE the asshole! Or something!” Flustered. “Ever heard of, uh, ‘monogamy’? One-man-one-man kinda thing? Huh??”

Oh, this is _rich._ Rin feels like his entire face has been sprayed with fairy dust, he’s grinning so hard, eyes open so wide. “Omigod. This from the dude who not only was like diving ass-first into a POLYROMANCE for the past 48 hours, but had the bright idea to turn a foursome into a fivesome! Which – which there isn’t even like a fucking NAME for! And you’re all bent outta shape about ‘monogamy’?? Hey, wouldn’t that be ‘monoandry’ or some stupid shit?”

Makoto just glares at him (which Rin finds weirdly hot) and sits further back. “You don’t need LOVE to be in a fivesome. It’s just fun. And once you turn around and think you’re LOVING somebody – that’s it. It’s time to stop.”

Rin’s grin hardens and he shakes his head. “Mako, Mako, Mako. That’s – gahhh…” He sits back too, and they’re staring hard at each other, hug abandoned, like the Grand Canyon just popped up between them and somehow Rin has to find a way over it. “Okay. Can you help that you have green eyes? Brown hair?”

Makoto just _looks_ at him and his kindergarten-level reasoning and doesn’t even answer.

“Okay! No, you can’t. They’re just something that are a part of you. Like being gay. And hot as fuck.” Rin clears his throat, _willing_ himself back on target. “ _So is who you love._ You maybe would never have fallen for me if we hadn’t been in swim-team together. But something about spending all that time together, working on something, a common goal, wearing those tight-as-hell legskins –”

“Alright, I get it,” Makoto interrupts, but he’s got a tiny smile, and that’s good.

Rin smiles too. “Now, Haru’s a funny case. I’m really not sure _why_ you love him, or that is to say, why you’ve fallen for him so fast. Maybe it was the book, like, knowing him and what he thought of us before we even met him. Maybe it’s this ‘type’ thing you were talking about at Rosie’s.” Makoto flushes again, looking down shyly; but Rin does an almost unforgivably rom-com thing, guides his chin back up with a finger. He _needs_ Makoto to see him for this.

“…maybe it’s some weird combination of things, some feeling that you practically know each other from another life, that being side-by-side with him just feels _right_ in a way that makes zero-fucking sense.” Makoto’s eyes are widening, and Rin pushes on so he’s sure there’s no misunderstanding.

“I know, Makoto. I’m in love with him too.”

Dead silence. Almost heavy. Just the metallic _snick-snick_ of Rin’s Kit-Kat clock on the wall over the TV, soft, sorta overlaying it. And Makoto’s just looking at him, a flat deadpan that could give FishBoy the shakes, he’s miles from contributing yet, so Rin keeps on.

“I knew it during our race. I’m _supposed_ to be with this guy. We’re _supposed_ to be together. I don’t even know if that means swimming, bullshitting, being friends, fucking – I just don’t know. I don’t even know if it matters that we’re in the same city. Same COUNTRY. I think it doesn’t! I think we’re just – meant for each other. And that has fucking blown my everloving mind. BUT –” He holds up a long finger, sitting up perfectly straight –

“BUT, that does NOT mean my lifelong love for you has changed one millimeter. Fuck, I probably love you _more!_ ‘Cause he like shows me all the things you are – and all the things he isn’t, and like vice versa, I don’t know – it’s a giant mess, but it’s like a _nice_ mess.” He’s grinning again, but this time it’s a soft grin, and he feels the way-too-familiar burn of tears across his eyes and in his nose, but he doesn’t care. “And … God, I’m gonna sound like the world’s biggest slut now.”

“And that’s news because….?” Makoto asks nonchalantly, and what the fuck, he was actually feeling _sorry_ for that jerk?

“Jerk,” he grumbles, but can’t supress his new smile. “Well, being with Sousuke, too. He’s – he’s just so _easy._ Like we coulda all gone to school with him way back when too! Like there’s no ‘oh yes, what do you think about nuclear disarmament’ bullshit adult talk we have to get through first. We just already know each other. For better OR worse.”

“Nuclear disarmament is important, Rin,” Makoto says loftily, and that’s it, clearly this Serious Relationship Talk is officially kaput, and Rin can finally ask what’s _really_ been on his mind.

“Poseur. SO. Tell me tell me what Haru’s like in bed, willya??” He does a quick wipe under his eyes; somehow locker-room talk while weeping is a little too gay even for him.

Makoto, being an utter TURNCOAT, clams right up and looks to the side. Rin almost expects him to start whistling theatrically like a total doof.

“Come onnnn. TELL me! I’ll tell YOU when we do it! _If_ you aren’t with us that is.” He narrows his eyes in a way he knows from experience is devastatingly sexy.

“Sharing is caring, Rin,” Makoto says like the world’s perviest pre-school teacher, then sighs and looks back again, blushing. “Well, you had it wrong to start. We, uh, never actually made it into a bed.”

Rin gasps in mock-shock (he did catch a glimpse of them over Sousuke’s Peeping Tom shoulder, after all) but still is a little surprised to feel his heart begin to speed up. “You … you _savages!”_

“Yeah, well … he was kinda demanding and I wanted to oblige him,” Makoto replies, and he is actually fucking _sheepish,_ like a guy moving furniture for a stereotypical ‘50s housewife, and Rin’s mouth is falling open.

“…’demanding,’ eh.”

“Yeah. He was _verrry_ clear what he wanted and didn’t want. That he wanted me. Bad. And he didn’t want me to hold back at all, I didn’t have to worry about even hurting him, because he said he trusted me with his life.” Makoto is just blinking distantly at him like he’s back in the moment, in that guest bedroom with a little robe-clad Haru in front of him. “He was so _intense_ when he said that. Grabbed my hands, looked up into my eyes … God, Rin, you notice how he can just like PIN you with those eyes?”

“Yeah,” Rin mutters, too far into a scene _he wasn’t even present for_ to make his lips move properly.

“So I said, OK, Haru-chan – and Rin, I can’t help it, I don’t _mean_ to call him that stupid kid thing! It just happens! So I reassured him, yes, he’d be safe with me, and I’d still give it to him as … as hard and rough as he wanted. As he could take. But I wouldn’t hurt him because I’d rather die.” He stops suddenly. “Jesus, I’m a sap, right?”

Rin swallows hard to allow words to come through, pats Mako’s bony knee fondly. “But you’re _our_ sap.”

Makoto smirks at him. “And … and that’s pretty much what happened. I – I took him on his knees against the guest bed, and actually I think I _was_ too rough with him, but – but I think he really liked it. I slowed down, at the end, and there’s just something about moving with him…” Makoto trails off, staring down at Rin’s hand on his knee, and doesn’t actually finish his story – but Rin barely notices, his imagination afire with all the countless possible _somethings_ moving with Haru could be.

And renews his internal vow to find out.

***

Sooooo yeahhhh….

Hahaha…. I FULLY intended to get these dudes to a rollicking dinner at Rei and Nagisa’s (with a special guest?). I’ve even been drooling over the damn menu. But that scene with Rin and Mako was truly not what I expected … it became something I didn’t want to gloss over or treat in passing. This is a very important OT3, really, and they needed some space. So leaving aside the fact these dudes (well … except for Haru, maybe?) go around confessing to each other like it’s going out of style lol, I truly hope you enjoyed and found that all plausible. And stay tuned for more fun and feels next chap! :D


	30. Dinner and a show

Greetings and salutations, to the most-excellent readers/commenters in AO3 :D. Welcome to another sorta spastic chapter with WAY TOO MANY WORDS. So, let us begin with some pictures, shall we? ;) I must share two amazing new fanart pieces with you:

My dearest [Irish_Cupcake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Irish_Cupcake/pseuds/Irish_Cupcake) strikes again – this time with [the most-adorable online vision of Kisumi](http://maybeillride-changemylife.tumblr.com/post/116387174334/kisumi-unlocking-the-achievement-of-forming-the) after their epic Skype-a-thon in Ch. 28, unlocking the “achievement” of the OT5. I almost died from the sheer, witty CUTE.

And the lovely No0onat – who’s stuff is so professional, I keep looking for a copyright symbol – was particularly taken with the image of Haru in Sou’s giant shirt (that he’s worn the past few chaps). Et voila, [this ridiculously sexy drawing of same](http://maybeillride-changemylife.tumblr.com/post/115252341819/no0onatsweet-a-new-drawing-i-havent-draw). WOW.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!! <333

***

“How’s your drink, Ms. G?” Nagisa calls from the kitchen, and Gou smiles. It’s so fun to hear how light it sounds – how amused, and bright, and just-plain _happy._ Not that Nagi isn’t a happy guy – shit, if she was HALF as happy as he is on a regular basis, she wouldn’t need her various habits. Kicking the shit out of various inanimate objects at the boxing gym. _Running –_ running, running, running, best and most-reliable way to get that endorphin rush when she’s panting back at her building, drenched in sweat. No bad habits, per se, unless you count her visits to Miss Miho as bad in some way. But between being a happier person and feeling driven to go get Miho’s brand of therapy when she’s going a little insane; well, she’ll pick broken-and-needs-fixing. Every time.

Nagisa’s mood tonight is just off-the-charts, even for him. Gou lowers her glass and leans forward on the living room couch to yell back at him. “Well, gorgeous, I think you made this mojito _extra_ good and I wanna be pissed you don’t make ‘em like this when it’s just us.” Nagi comes over to where she’s settled-in, drying his hands on a dish towel. He leans against the other couch, throwing the towel around his neck like it’s a scarf and he’s on the runway. She smirks up at him.

“But you’re _not_ pissed be _cause…_ ” he prompts.

“Oh, ‘cause you’re so damn happy, you are GLOWING. And it’s adorable.” She tucks her legs up under her on the couch, happy again that she wore the ultra-wide-leg trousers that are so comfy they’re like wearing nothing. Perfect thing to overeat in. “You really love Haru, don’t you? ‘Cause I’m sorry, I can’t see you getting this excited to see Sou-chan. Unless there’s something you need to tell Rei…?” She makes sure her voice carries so Rei can appreciate her little joke too, as her hottie editor busily sets their big round dining table. The bespectacled man doesn’t even bother to look up from the artful napkin origami he’s doing, which is so beautifully-Rei she snorts minty rum back into the glass on her next drink.

“Something you need to tell me, dear?” Rei asks his husband mildly, still not distracted from his task.

Nagisa must see that as a challenge, since he saunters across the generous open space to lean deeply over to the tall man, elbows on the table and gazing up at him. Giving him a nice view in his soft peach sweater – Gou has a quick impression of her blond partner in crime as a cupcake, fluffy and sweet and topped with a lemon swirl. _Damn, I must be hungry,_ she thinks idly. _Or this drink’s stronger than I thought._

Nagisa’s opening his mouth to say something when the door chimes sound, and his face lights up. “Oh, let’s ask Sou-chan now!” he beams, popping up like he _hadn’t_ just been trying to torment his long-suffering husband, and hurries to the entry hall.

“Nagisa! Towel!” she yells after him.

“Trendsetting here!” floats back to them, then they hear Nagisa undoing the locks and throwing the door like there’s an entire troop of lost firefighters waiting for directions out there. And then – “ _Haru-chan!_ Hiii! So happy you could do this! And God, let me grab those bags for you…”

She hears a low, quiet reply then Nagisa comes back in laden with two canvas shopping bags, heading for the kitchen. He’s wearing a million-watt grin, and Gou wonders again why she hasn’t gotten her ass out with Haru to do something fun – shop, maybe – but knows he’s been a little … busy. According to Rei, Haru’s been missing in action for days … and Sousuke has, too. It took Nagisa about ten seconds over lattes in their morning check-in today to lock eyes with her over his desk. She gazed back just as seriously.

“Doing it,” Nagisa had said with almost impossible gravitas.

“Hardcore,” she answered.

Then they softly knocked their paper takeout cups together in celebration of their powers of prediction.

Mr. Getting-Done-Hardcore-by-Sou-chan comes quietly into the apartment – _walking like he’s in some carefully-concealed discomfort –_ and Gou makes a mental note to chastise the big dick when he shows up. This is a delicate flower here, who deserves to be treated like a priceless work of art … or something. Before she jumps up to say hi, she just has to take a moment to fully look him over, where he’s having a sweet little moment with Rei, her editor practically falling over himself in the warmth of his greeting. He IS a delicate flower, somehow, wearing a royal blue yukata patterned all over in bright orange koi, that he’s butchered in his own unique way, cutting the sleeves off to expose his lean, toned arms, hacking the bottom short so it falls in jagged flutters over his hips, in magenta skinny jeans.

He’s … he’s so beautiful. He’s always been beautiful every time she’s seen him, in his own offbeat way, in that dumb Army coat or the vintage tuxedo jacket, or just ducking into the steamy water at the onsen. But something’s different about him tonight, that splash of punky color making him _pop_ against the calm white of Rei and Nagisa’s entryway. She can’t put her finger on it.

As she’s lost in checking him out – practically gawking – he’s done with Rei, ambling over to her spot in the sunken conversation area, and she scrambles up.

“Gou! It’s so awesome that you’re here!” he smiles at her, an awkward little smile, but it crinkles the corners of those unreal eyes of his and plumps his ( _pink_ ) cheeks, and she wants to grab him, so she does. Her hug is fierce and firm, and Haru is warm and surprisingly solid, and his arms feel so nice around her as he pats her back.

“I still can’t believe you say my name right.” She feels a grin on her face, which feels almost as good as their hug. They relax their arms and pull back, and she notices for the first time his hair is different – he’s twisted it back in haphazard chunks, pinned it out of his way, probably so he can cook without it getting in his face. Very practical; but whimsical, too, and it leaves him looking like a gorgeous uni art student. Male _or_ female, he could probably get away with either. She’s officially gawking now at the androgynous beauty smiling and still holding her forearms.

“You know my own brother refuses to say ‘Kou’? I can’t tell if he has some hearing problem or speech impediment, or just enjoys being an asshole. Probably all of the above,” she says hotly, and Haru flinches, just a bit, squeezing her arms. Gou narrows her eyes up at him. _Aha. Jackpot._

“I hear you guys met last Friday! That you and Sousuke had some – interesting things to say to him. And his boyfriend.” She pauses, and Haru’s eyes are so wide, it’s almost funny. She grabs his hands and holds tight. “ _Thank_ you both, for whatever you said. You made a huge impression on him. I haven’t seen him that fired-up in … well. Ever.” She stops, feeling almost shy for some mysterious reason, a state of being she basically never experiences.

Haru’s struggling not to laugh, and Gou’s moved for some reason to reach up, lay her hand on his chest where the yukata folds over and a slice of pale skin peeks out. Like a _girlfriend._ “What?? What’s so damn funny about that, Nanase- _san_?”

He shakes his head helplessly, then grabs her hand off his chest but just keeps it there, clasping it close. She can suddenly feel her heartbeat a little more than makes sense. “Oh, Gou … I’m just getting how much you two are alike. You could practically be twins.”

She scoffs in practiced disdain. “Uh, _sure,_ Haru, except that he’s older. Clearly. Plus a total spaz which I most-definitely am not.”

His eyes crinkle at her again and it’s so cute she almost drops her show of irritation. “Nah, you got some spastic tendencies too. I can tell.”

“Um, for your _information,_ smart-ass, this spaz writes your checks, so if you –”

Nagisa’s at their elbows and shoving a fresh mojito between them like he was waiting for a moment of sufficient drama to cock-block. She wouldn’t put it past the little imp.

“Haru-chan! Drink this! It’s minty and refreshing. Cool down this hot little thing you two got going here.” He waggles the glass and his eyebrows and Gou rolls her eyes. “And hey, last time I checked you were gay, right?” Shoots his Master Insinuator look over to her. “You too, Gou-chan! What the hell, Haru making you think about playing for the other team?”

“I don’t do team sports,” Haru says, releasing her hand to take the tall glass choked with mint leaves and ice. Gou tells herself she’s NOT disappointed.

“Ha! Says the man with ‘For the Team’ engraved in his flesh.” Nagisa smirks at him, and Haru just gives him a little glare back.

The pleasant minor key of the door chimes interrupts them and Nagisa’s face lights up again. “Haru-chan! Come with me to the door, it must be Sou-chan!” He drags Haru away from her by the wrist as his drink teeters on the edge of spilling, Haru stumbling after him like a lazy dog who doesn’t want to go for a walk. “Come on, Gou, come say hi!” And he’s yanking her along too in his other hand.

Gou almost snaps back that hey, their little “mystery couple” probably has spent the past week straight together, so the “big reunion” Nagisa’s hoping to spy on is bound to disappoint. But she remembers to hold her tongue to let her colleague have his little fun. She also may have the vaguest curiosity too – purely informational, of course. It’s always good to keep tabs on where people are at.

Turns out Rei’s way more on top of things than they are, already answering the door when they get there so the new arrival is faced with a little clot of people to greet him. “Yamazaki! Ah, it is such a treat that you two were free this evening!” Rei’s opening his hands wide like a proud maître-d welcoming diners to opening night of a new restaurant, and Gou smiles at his adorkableness. The tall, dark man in the doorway smiles too – a _real_ smile, like she’s not even sure she’s ever seen from him … and it does so much for him, makes him a thousand times more approachable.

 _Jackpot,_ she thinks again. Sou-chan in a good mood, on top of Haru’s new, indefinable … glow? Case closed. Game over.

She trades a quick look with Nagi behind Haru’s back, where the blond has aggressively shoved him forward. They share the barest of nods.

“You know, Ryuugazaki, I’ve been meaning to tell you, you’re welcome to call me Sousuke,” the writer says from the doorway … and Gou finally notices a man beside him, waiting patiently through their greetings. A guy as tall as Sousuke, equally-built, which instantly gets her attention because of her whole … muscle … thing. Her eyes travel curiously up his broad chest in a crisp white button-down – stopping suddenly at his _shock of red hair._

 _“Stephen!”_ she blurts out, TOTALLY interrupting everything and causing the whole assembly to look up at or swivel back to her spot in the back, and she feels her damn traitor cheeks flush.

“’Stephen’?” The big red-headed guy looks delighted. “Hey, Sousuke! Is this – what was it? – the famous ‘Kate’??” He bursts into a crazy laugh, socking Sousuke playfully in the shoulder. “You old dog! You didn’t say _she’d_ be here!”

Sousuke stares at her with surprise before turning to his plus-one in irritation. “Well, that’s because I didn’t KNOW, isn’t it.” Then he gets his sweet, slow smile again, and Gou’s smiling too. “But it’s fantastic – you can finally meet each other.”

Rei’s reaching through the door, grabbing ‘Stephen’s’ arm, a bag from Sousuke. “I insist this lovely meeting take place inside. I feel like the worst host _ever_ for letting you stay out there as long as you have!” Then he’s fussing and pulling them in, as pushy as Nagisa, but less violent about it. The two handsome guys come filing in and Rei shuts the door, then they’re in a funny little ring all facing each other, just glancing around and checking each other out in a surprisingly not-awkward silence.

As these things often happen, the first break of the silence is a batch of overlapping comments.

“Haru … I brought the wine you like. The Cab Sav.” Sousuke, almost shy (?).

“So this is Haru, huh…? I _see_.” ‘Stephen.’ Big, knowing smile.

“Oh my GOD, Stephen in the flesh!” Nagisa, so pumped he’s bouncing a little on the balls of his feet like he does when he’s _really_ excited.

They break into laughter, too loud, and smile around at each other again. “Honey, why don’t you do introductions. You’re so good at it,” Nagi finally prompts his husband, whose own cheeks tint. He pushes his stylish frames up his nose and takes a big over-loud breath.

“Hello! This is a big honor,” the editor says sincerely to ‘Stephen,’ bowing slightly and totally correctly. The big redhead smiles and bows back. “I’m … Sousuke … -san’s and Haruka-senpai’s editor, Ryuugazaki Rei.” He pauses, then adds, “Please, feel free to call me Rei. This is my husband Nagisa, who runs our publishing house, and does a damn-fine job.”

“Awww, Rei-chan,” Nagisa coos happily, crossing the little ring to stretch up and give him a peck on the lips. He stays there, arm wrapped possessively around his husband’s waist.

Rei nods deeply over at where Gou and Haru are pressed together. “And this lovely woman is Gou-san, who keeps our numbers in good shape. Smartest person in the room, very possibly.” He winks at her.

She’s startled when _Haru_ speaks up – having been silent all this time. “…and our Kate,” he says quietly, giving her a little side-eye look. Sort of conspiratorial. And she’s inexplicably filled with a rush of pride. Damn _right_ she was their Kate!

“Well, it’s way past time for Kate to meet Stephen,” the big good-natured redhead says, and then he’s stepping forward to take her hand firmly, and her telltale flush is _totally_ out of control now dammit _dammit._ And this guy isn’t even her type for the usual reason…“Hi Gou – I’m Seijuurou, but call me Sei. Way too many syllables for everyday use.” He has pretty eyes, she thinks – light, the most-unusual amber color, sort of catlike.

She clears her throat. “It’s … really good to meet you, Sei! I’ve – I’ve enjoyed being your … okay, what the fuck are we anyway?” She hopes he’s okay with their usual pottymouth-parade because it’s happening, and she isn’t sorry. One bit. She flips her gaze to the dark writer next to her, challenging.

“If we tell you, where’s the fun in that?” Haru asks her rhetorically, peacefully. _The fucker._ “You just have to think – what does it LOOK like those two may mean to each other? To you?”

Nagisa’s pouncing – fiercely – on what is probably the most-perfect opening in the history of openings. “Ahhh, Sou-chan, that’s a great question! So what does _Haru_ mean to _you?_ ”

The silence this time is – the only word that comes to Gou’s mind is “melodramatic.” _Everyone_ knows what Nagisa’s on about, it seems, with Rei seeming a little horrified at his impropriety ( _you’d think the poor guy would be used to it by now…_ ), and Stephen-aka-Sei grinning in pure delight. Another Nagisa, then.

Haru and Sousuke, though.

She subtly glances between them, filled with satisfied delight at the wide eyes and … _happiness_ struggling to make it past the big man’s usual tough-guy look. Haru, on the other hand, is totally expressionless. A (very pretty) deer in the headlights.

Sousuke has to take over given Haru’s little check-out from the situation. “…so. I guess this is the right time to make a ‘formal announcement.’” He smirks, crookedly, staring straight across their circle at Haru. “Haru and I – are together.” He doesn’t elaborate, but his big, angular face she knows so well does all the necessary talking.

That look at Haru…?

Gou would pay a lot of money to have someone look at her like that.

Nagisa again. Of course. “Well _that_ happened fast, you two. What the hell?? This has to be one of those ‘meet at work’ things. It’s taken down many a strong man and woman.” He slaps poor Rei on the stomach, making him “oof!” in surprise. “Beginners’ luck, Rei-chan. _I_ should’ve thought of the whole ‘workplace matchmaking’ angle a long time ago. THEN we’d see who’s the winner here.”

Sei is laughing his crazy-happy laugh again. “Wait. You guys were trying to match Haru up? And he ends up with _Sousuke?_ Oh, god, poor guy,” he gets out, hanging onto Sousuke’s shoulder. Sousuke is NOT amused.

“What’s so funny about that? Haru and I had … some challenges, to start. But then we figured out how much we have in common. We’re a lot alike. And things … just happened.” He stops, looking so uncomfortable Gou feels bad for him, and she gets the fluttery little “looking at a kitten” feeling. Betrayed by estrogen. _Again._

“I’m surprised, Haru.” Nagisa’s pinning Haru with a stare and Gou suddenly wishes she was mixing up some drinks for the new arrivals. Just … her appetite for getting to the bottom of the “SouHaru Paradox” is fading. Those looks Sousuke keeps sending over … this thing is apparently REAL, God knows how they got something _real_ going so fast when she’s never had it (Miho living in her “undecided” file still). And she doesn’t want Nagisa fucking that up, however inadvertent or playful.

“You turn down all these guys I like expertly chose for you to _complement_ you, get you out of the house doing things, hold up both ends of the conversation! And you end up with this big galoot who has all these bad moods and can’t small talk.” He frowns. “Is it the sex?”

“OH MY GOD, Nagisa,” Gou growls, marching over and grabbing him off his husband. “These poor dudes are dying of thirst. You haven’t even given Haru a chance to _start_ his drink. _Come make them with me.”_ And she’s pulling him firmly into the kitchen, her CEO too surprised to say a word of protest.

Behind them, she hears the guys move to the plush sofas, Rei laughing loudly like he does when he’s nervous, and she stops them at the little impromptu minibar on the island. She pinches his arm in the fleshiest part, the inside of his elbow, and he yelps at her.

“Hey! I’m just following our PLAN here, woman. What the fuck happened to ‘finding out everything we can about these guys’? Did I miss the memo? Help me out here.” He’s miffed, but there’s a little smile at the corners of his lips, and Gou sighs. He starts obediently filling two glasses with ice and mint leaves.

“They’re in love,” she whispers, turning fully away from the living room like the guys are lip-readers. “That night out at Dolce Vento? Their weird little tension? Something was up then, but it’s full-blown now. For Sousuke, that’s for sure.” Nagisa’s squinting thoughtfully and not interrupting, which is a new development, and seems uncharacteristically thoughtful as he gets the pitcher of mojitos out of the fridge. As he pours she leans in again. “Haru, though, I don’t know about him. Guy’s totally expressionless. That _can’t_ be a good sign.”

Nagi’s furiously shaking his head. “No. The blanker Haru’s look, the more he cares. It’s weird. But you’ll get used to it.”

She honks her laugh then slaps a hand over her mouth. Nagisa turns holding his two finished drinks, an eyebrow raised, looking like the poster boy for debauchery. She shakes her head. “Just – just give ‘em some space, Nagisa. Sounds like Haru may not have much experience at this and … shit, there are about a million reasons this thing could fail. So let’s just give ‘em a break, okay?” she whispers, leaning in close.

“I gotcha, sister,” he says breezily, giving her another tiny nod, and leads them back into the fray.

“Heyyy guys, I know we have what sounds like a very tasty wine coming with dinner,” Nagisa calls as he holds the two glasses up. “But you just gotta have one of these too. Cool us _all_ down.” Haru looks up at him, where he’s tucked awkwardly in the corner of the couch, eyes narrow and distrustful, and as she draws up next to Nagisa she watches him wink cheerily down at the poor guy.

Sousuke accepts his drink, just as awkwardly perched on the arm of the couch beside Haru, one arm draped behind Haru’s head, and the sight of them so equally uncomfortable snugged together is fucking _priceless._ If Gou could discreetly snap a pic with her phone, she would; instead, she smiles at Sei as he takes the first appreciative gulp of his drink, and she settles on the other couch between Rei and Nagisa.

“So I wanna help you out in the kitchen, Haru – and aren’t we keeping you?” she dives in, never mind her culinary skills start and end with the microwave; but he gives her another of his little smiles and she feels instantly better. About everything.

“No, you don’t have to do anything, but thanks for the offer,” he says, taking his first (?) pull off the drink and looking contemplative. “This is good, Nagisa. Kinda sweet for me but I like the mint. And I get the feeling I could get really fucking drunk on this one alone.”

“Lightweight!” Nagisa crows, and Gou likes the look of controlled violence Sousuke shoots over. _Protective, eh? Well ISN’T that interesting._

Haru’s going on, leaning out of his little corner and looking surpisingly animated. “And it’s really nice. I basically don’t have to do anything – the salad’s done, dessert’s made, just have to throw the bread in the oven and reheat the pasta.”

“Oh, pasta, Haruka-senpai?” Rei asks in delight. Gou smirks – Nagisa may LOOK like the carb-king, and is, but under Rei’s perfect-nutrition exterior beats the heart of a closet junk-food junkie. She has photographic proof. Hotel vending machines on certain business trips that didn’t stand a chance.

Haru nods proudly at Rei. “Mmm. I made gnocchi – those little potato dumpling things that look like you’re eating caterpillars.” She almost laughs at the look of horror on Rei’s face. “But they’re like little _clouds._ And I made a roasted red pepper vodka sauce.” He frowns. “I had to ask the guy at the liquor store for help with the vodka and he acted like I didn’t know how to read.”

“Yeah, well, you _are_ a little challenged, Haru. But I love you anyway,” Sousuke says indulgently, and leans very deliberately over as he tilts Haru’s chin up, catching him in a firm kiss before Haru can think of doing anything else. The collective watches in some kind of weird awe; Rei softly breathes “Haruka-senpai…”

When Sousuke finally lets up, it’s Sei grabbing Haru’s hand in sympathy. “He loves you, Haru. My condolences,” the big man says in so-sorry-about-your-mother’s-death tones, and burts out laughing again. “Ahhh, I never, _ever_ thought I’d see the day.”

Haru just looks at Sousuke’s friend, suddenly very serious. “First time for everything,” he says mysteriously, then glances up fleetingly at the other writer. No “I love you too,” no “thank you dear”; but something about his words seems to say just that to Sousuke, as he smiles down and leans into the man at his side.

“So how do you know this dude enough to get him into your book?” Nagisa demands, resting his bare feet on the coffee table. “Old boyfriend?”

“Nagisa…” Rei sighs as Sei just leans into the cushions and laughs uproariously, shaking his head.

“God! I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed so much!! I gotta hang out with you all more often,” he says when he’s more coherent. “Oh, no, no. Believe it or not, I’m straight. Ta da!” He does a little “two-bit magician finishing a trick” flourish and Gou snorts hard into her glass, getting a worried pat on the back from Rei. “We were college buddies at Todai. We would’ve ended up on the swim-track together – if Sousuke hadn’t damaged his shoulder.” He stops, all amusement wiped clean from his face. Gou glances over and sees the big author looking weirdly calm, Haru’s face sad below him, one hand just resting on the big man’s jeans-clad thigh.

Sei sighs. “But it wasn’t to be. I went off to coach and Sousuke had to make a major-change sort of at the 11th hour.”

“Literature,” Sousuke puts in quietly.

“But we kept in touch though,” Sei says, and his face relaxes again. “No matter where I ended up, or he did, we always made a point to connect. He’s been my wingman through a _lot_ of stuff. He’d be my best man, I think, if I ever got my act together enough for some poor unsuspecting woman to marry me.”

“Poor woman,” Gou lets slip unthinkingly, in a _yeah right tell me another one_ voice, then blinks as Nagisa and Sousuke laugh raucously at her ( _nice to know I’m uniting people,_ she thinks sourly). Damn inner-editor falling down on her job AGAIN. And Sei, Sei just leans forward to get his glass from the table, leans back, crosses one muscular black-jeaned-leg over the other, and takes a looong sip.

All with his unsettlingly pretty eyes pinned to hers’.

 _This_ time when the door chimes yet again – totally confusingly, since the gang (for this evening anyway) seems to be all here – she thinks she’s never been so happy to jump up for a bell in her entire life. Including school. His eyes are just too intense, and it’s a palpable relief as she rushes to the door (hearing Rei huff, “If anyone invited someone else, Nagisa, wouldn’t it have been _you??_ ” paired with the shifting sounds of someone getting up to follow her).

She undoes the locks and opens the door – and just blinks as her confusion comes to a head.

“Um,” she manages.

“Gou!! _You’re_ here, too??” her brother enthuses, showing none of the hesitancy to intrude that Sousuke and Sei had. No, he takes a _giant_ step in, picks her up around the waist like she weighs as much as a bag of groceries, and is somehow moved to _spin her the fuck around._ Like they’re filming a lame pop video and he’s the heartthrob crooner who has to look like he’s stupid-in-love. Except for the detail that they’re brother and sister, that is. Which probably wouldn’t fly.

She’s got his forearms in a panicky death-claw-grip when he finally sets her back to Earth, with a gentleness he’s just as capable of as the stupid impulsive acts like that spin. She pants lightly up at him and he grins down, the full shark-grin, and before she can even interrogate him she’s hit again by his ENERGY. And while it was intense and more than a little tormented when they shared takeout together the other night, it’s all happiness in his face now. Happiness, and a brazen cockiness, and a sort of bright edge to him. Like – _essential Rin –_ as he should be.

She releases the soft wool of the black dress coat he’s in, grabs his cheeks instead like he’s six years old. “Rin! What the FUCK are you doing here! You crashing this thing? That’s punk, even for a delinquent like you,” she demands, and she’s smiling at him by the end, no, _grinning_ as hard as he is. And that’s when a soft touch pats her shoulder and she almost jumps back into Rin’s arms in surprise.

“Hi, Gou! It’s such a pleasure to see you again, I can’t even tell you,” the lilt of Makoto’s voice says behind her, and she whips her head to her right to find the man himself … and _God,_ he’s just as gorgeous as the last time she saw him.

 _I’m a muscle-maniac,_ some alarmed part of her says. _And I think it’s time to finally admit I’m bi. Or maybe just – a muscle- … sexual?_

Then the brown-sugar-haired guy is leaning way in to give her an affectionate hug around the shoulders, and leaning his head in her messy updo, and she thinks _shit. Makoto doesn’t just LOOK like brown-sugar. He SMELLS like it too. A man this nice who smells like caramel and is good to my brother. Does. Not. Compute._

“What … what can I do for you gentlemen…?” Rei says lamely, from someplace behind Rin, and their little knot of happiness breaks up. Rei’s standing, his good-host role shaky and faltering, stuck where he is like the sight before him is a foreign film and no one’s turned the subtitles on.

Then … she watches with enjoyment as he finishes taking the two new arrivals in, seems to run a search against his mental database (a truly awesome place, Gou surmises). As the search results finally come in with a jolt.

“You – you’re Rob Miller…!! What – and you’re Michael Tanglewood? How are you…” He gives up and just drifts off, pointing dreamily to Rin, then Makoto, then repeating the cycle.

“I understand – I have to call him ‘Michael’ too. He is NOT a ‘Mike’!” Makoto says lightly, getting an offended “Oi, Makoto!” from the couches. He’s unfazed, smiling and stepping forward to their host. “Hello! I’m Tachibana Makoto, and yes, Haru and Sousuke used me as their model for Tanglewood. You must be Ryuugazaki Rei!” He’s bowing to the editor, who looks to be totally beyond speech. He doesn’t even bow back, which she thought was so hard-wired into Rei it was an involuntary reflex.

But she’s wrong, Rei’s powers of speech are just fine, and he’s sticking a hand out when Makoto comes back up. Makoto accepts with _that_ smile. “’Rei’, please! What an honor to have you both here, an honor and – and a surprise! It’s a full _Last of the Brohicans_ reunion tonight! Looks like you know ‘Kate’…” He loses steam for a second as he stares hard at her, willing her to help him, but she just shugs up at him. Giving up, he turns to Rin for the first time.

“And. Well, this of course is –”

“Her brother. Rin. Also known as Rob Miller. I, by the way, am just _fine_ with nicknames,” Rin interrupts, sticking his hand out too. Rei shakes it, looking like he expects to wake up anytime soon.

“Rin! It’s a pleasure! And did you know –”

“That ‘Stephen’s’ here, too!” Sei pipes up, where he’s quietly come up to join them. Rei actually jumps and gives a little, adorable squeak. “Mikoshiba Seijuurou. Hey. I can’t believe we’re all meeting like this. With us the book’s ‘babies’ and Rei and Nagisa the ‘doctors’, ‘nurses’, whatever. And Haru and Sousuke the parents, of course.”

Sousuke’s yelling from back on the couch. “So does that make Haru the mom?”

Sei grins, and Rin _huh-huh-huh!_ s next to her. Makoto, surprisingly, calls back. “No, this book has two dads. Who do a great job with the ‘plot’ AND the ‘feelings.’”

“I can’t believe you sometimes, Makoto,” comes to them from Haru, as he shuffles to join the still-partially-shellshocked group at the door. He’s got his irresistible little smile on, and she just stares as he comes in close, pulls Makoto’s head down by the neck, and kisses him. Tenderly. _Knowingly._

_As he slides to her brother and does the same._

Then continues on into the kitchen, where the soothingly-domestic sounds of the fridge opening and pans gonging against each other begin.

Gou’s back to her left as soon as she can make her arms move, grabbing Rin’s perfect cheekbones again with none of her former gentleness. _Yanks_ his head down to face her and is triply-suspicious by the STATE of him, the totally disproportionate brick-red of his cheeks, the lack of focus in his eyes. The _stupid_ little lopsided smile.

“What. Are. You. Doing. With. Him.” She figures simple is the best way to get him to actually answer and not evade her.

“Um. Yeah! Funny story!” Rin blurts, looking more focused but funnily … guilty?? A distant alarm-bell kicks off in her head.

Then Makoto strikes – _again –_ so, so gently easing her hands off Rin like he’s doing a hostage negotiation, slips one of her hands in the crook of his elbow and firmly walks them to the conversation area. _Oh … they were gonna have a CONVERSATION, alright._

Their insane little entourage stops and Sousuke just looks up at them calmly, slowly swallowing from his glass. He’s calm – and _amused,_ and Gou just GETS it. Haru and Sousuke planned this … this thing all along, for tonight, and it feels as sudden and shocking as some kind of weird intervention. Only instead of a plea to get help, those outside their little … _foursome_ were being confronted with a new relationship reality.

Suddenly, the little “are-they-or-are-they?” game she and Nagisa have been playing about Sousuke and Haru feels … woefully inadequate. And a lot naïve.

She flips her head to her accomplice to see how Nagisa is taking all this, and finds him speechless for maybe the first time in her entire knowledge of him. Then he seems to find himself, launching up to stand almost accusatorily before Sousuke, and she’s tempted to be afraid for the big dude.

“…you’ve been in a GROUP RELATIONSHIP with Haru and these two guys – these two _likely porn actors –_ ”

“– that’s porn STARS. And also ‘ex-‘,” Rin interrupts, and he almost sounds insulted.

“And it’s ‘polyromance’,” Haru calls from behind them, over the sounds of beeping and a pan shifting hollowly over a burner.

“Jesus, we gonna split hairs here, Haru-chan?? So point being, you’ve all been having probably the best sexual arrangement I’ve EVER heard of. FACT or FICTION. Book or movie,” and Nagisa is laughing by now, running his hands through his blond floof in excitement. “Ah – no slam on our beautiful thing, dear,” he says indulgently, turning back to Rei with a wink. But Rei doesn’t smile back, still looking … shocked.

“Nagisa, I’m sure it’s not all roses,” Gou says, suddenly imagining being in a relationship with three of her exes AT ONCE, the thought of it so preposterous she can’t even whip up a mental image. All that negotiating! Discussing! Ego-massaging! And her _brother_ has been doing this crazy thing – without even _telling_ her?

She’s turning without warning to Rin and shoving him in the chest before she hardly finishes the thought. He stumbles gracelessly back into Rei’s arms and Rei actually fumbles him like a crappy quarterback for a second, trying desperately to keep her jerky brother from falling. But Rin’s already dense and with her push Rei doesn’t stand a chance, and they both go down, Rin shockingly silent and Rei stammering apologies under him. As if he’d attacked Rin instead of the other way around.

“Rei, I’m very sorry about that,” she sighs as she helps him up, leaving Rin to get up on his own, muttering vague profanities.

“Thanks for the hand, Sousuke!” he says cheerily once he’s standing.

“You think I wanna get in _her_ way? I value my balls, thanks,” Sousuke replies, leaning over to paw through the magazines stacked on the coffee table.

“Yamazaki!” Rei snaps, while Sei shakes with a laugh-fit and Nagisa’s in comedy-agony, doing that weird head-rub thing _on Sousuke’s shoulder,_ like he’s claiming territory.

Gou has no patience for this quip-fest.

She points commandingly at her sexual-deviant bro. “Rin. Just – hold the goddamn phone here.” It may be her Madam President voice, or the handy fact of being the only woman in the room, but they actually DO all shut up. And the guilt is unmistakable in Rin’s face before she says a word.

“Yeah, you _better_ be guilty, Rin. You get yourself into some big ‘70s cliché setup like this, and you don’t even _tell_ me?? And – and what was that comment about being EX-porn stars?” Her mouth is ahead of her brain in her righteous anger, and she’s shocked to finally hear what she just said. She presses her hands to her mouth in disbelief. It’s very, very quiet as she stares up; even Haru’s bustling in the kitchen has stopped. And it’s such a funny thing – as his ( _their_ ) bloodred eyes gaze down at her, fondly, _proudly_ , the frantic energy of the dinner party just melts away. He still doesn’t say a word, either. Like he’s patiently waiting for her to call it.

She squeezes his forearms again. “…did you guys quit? For REAL?” Sudden tears assault her eyes and she ignores them, feeling them tickle her cheeks. “Please, Rin. Please.”

He’s so _quiet_ about it – just bending forward, kissing her forehead softly. “All done,” he promises.

“…Oh! Oh, _Rin!”_ she gasps, just _pressing_ herself into his familiar chest, hugging his firm waist. It’s so wonderful to _feel_ his delighted laughter from there, practically from the inside … almost the way he must hear it.

It may be the sweetest thing she’s ever heard.

She pulls back, knowing she could get lost and stay there for an hour, soaking-in his happiness, his relief into her own worried bones. But they have a fabulous meal to eat. And she has some more hugs to dispense…

Makoto is so surprised to get her next he just gasps her name like a romance novel heroine as she attacks him. It feels … almost as good as hugging Rin. Then she turns to Sousuke, gazing solemnly down, and he slowly stands to face her – and he’s so damn tall…! Like she has to keep looking up and up and practically expects his head’ll be stuck in a cloud when she gets that high.

“Thank you. I have no idea how you did it, and maybe knowing would spoil the magic, somehow,” she tells him, and he lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. Like a big brother would.

“It was Haru. It was ALL Haru. It was his cause, or dream, or whatever, and his connection to these guys,” he smiles down, and she decides ‘in love’ is a wonderful look on him. His best, probably.

“Haruuu-chan! You’re busting these fucking models of maleness out of their bondage, or whatever, and you can’t even tell your _best friends in the fucking world?_ Do we really mean SO LITTLE to you??” Nagisa yells at the kitchen.

“Dammit, Nagisa, do you have to be such a drama queen?” Haru calls from behind them, and they turn to see him carrying a steaming platter over to the table. Rei hurries to help and comes back with a giant bowl of salad and what looks like a breadbasket.

“I ask myself that question every day,” he sighs as he goes back for more, and Haru nods seriously at him.

“Well! I guess that means dinner’s ready!” Makoto says happily, and his stomach rumbles magnificently.

“Hey man, I’m starving too,” Sei grins as he gets off the couch, wrapping an arm lightly around Sousuke’s shoulders. “Looks like that AND the guy can cook? I’m not sure you deserve him, bro.”

“And he’s a demon in the sack,” Sousuke says with authority.

“Oh. My GOD, Sou-chan,” Nagisa gasps, grabbing his arm. “Why have you never shown this side of you before!”

“How much do I have to pay you to _never_ call me that again?” Sousuke asks grimly, gently pulling his arm free.

“You couldn’t afford it,” Nagisa assures him, and Rin leaps forward to demand a fist-bump.

*

“Ohhhh, Haru! Where in the world did you learn to bake like this??” Makoto demands, the dessert fork forgotten midair. After a _very_ graphic show of pleasure in his first bite of pineapple cheesecake. That had her shifting uncomfortably in her seat across from him. On top of her slight-overheat from sitting next to Sei, who keeps making little comments and smiling down at her and laughing about the unexpectedly close-quarters around the table…

Haru just shrugs with one shoulder, a perfect “whatever” gesture. “It’s so easy. Cheese, sugar, vanilla, eggs. Lots of pineapple. You could practically make it camping.” He gets a thoughtful look. “Hmm, I wonder how that would turn out…”

“If YOU were making it, Haru-chan, it’d be a masterpiece,” Makoto raves, shoving another (overloaded) forkful in.

Haru just huffs and turns away to grab his wineglass. “ _God,_ Makoto. They’ll think I drug you.”

“Ah – cheesecake laced with Ecstasy! Haru-chan, you’re a genius!” Nagisa says, wide-eyed, taking a dreamy bite from Rin’s untouched plate (his own already scraped-clean).

Rin waves his wineglass at Nagisa. “See, you do that too! The whole ‘Haru-chan’ thing! I thought Makoto was the only weirdo stuck in some creepy primary-school timewarp.”

Nagisa’s nodding furiously, even as Makoto blushes and drains his own wineglass. “Oh, he’ll always be ‘Haru-chan’ to me. Hey, I got the honor of hanging out with him since we were tiny. Defending him when he showed up to the school Halloween costume party dressed as a mackerel. With a little dance he’d choreographed. Right??” Nagisa asks excitedly, though no one has said anything, possibly too traumatized by that visual to form words. But then he just smiles nostalgically across the table at his old friend. “He was the _prettiest_ little kid, all that black hair and those giant blue eyes. He out-prettied all the girls, easy.”

Sousuke’s staring hard at Haru beside him, says “I wish I could’ve seen that.” Haru stabs him with a _look_.

“Well, now that we’re on the appetizing subject of shota-love,” Gou jokes –

– and Rei is suddenly standing, not to get another bottle of wine or use the bathroom, but just staying put, hands on the back of his chair. Looking very, very seriously down at Rin; shifting his stare to Makoto, finally Sousuke. She doesn’t think his order is accidental.

“And pardon me, Gou, but that’s the perfect segue,” he says.

“We’re really gonna discuss shota-love…?” Nagisa asks incredulously.

But Rei’s so swept-up in his topic he doesn’t even pause to lecture his husband. “Haruka-senpai … you may be older than me, but as your kouhai I feel I MUST look out for your best interests if the people around you may not. And _please_ don’t think I’m judging your actions.” And he falls silent again, just gazing intently at Haru now, who stares impassively back.

“Ach!! Spit it _out,_ man!” Rin finally growls, slapping a hand down on the table. “And by ‘people’ are you referring to us??”

Rei just smiles slightly as he considers his old friend. “Haruka-senpai _seems_ very tough, like nothing fazes him. But he just doesn’t want people worrying about him. He probably has more emotions than any of us, but he makes sure no one sees them.” The table is totally quiet as he pauses, searching for words, and Gou feels a wave of fresh affection for this kind, proper man. “He’s vulnerable. He’s never done _any_ of this before and now you all are wanting to be with him _at once!_ I understand – there’s _no_ one like Nanase Haruka.” He stops again, his hands tightening on the back of the chair, and Nagisa doesn’t make a word of “hey what about your husband” protest.

Then he’s sweeping his hot gaze between Haru’s three boyfriends again. “But you could hurt him, with what you’re doing. And please know if you _do_ hurt him, in any way, you’ll have to deal with me. I – I’m a peaceful man, but you don’t want to know what I’m capable of doing to protect the people I love.” And Rei finally stops, the weird fire in his eyes and whole demeanor quickly subsiding, as he sits heavily back in his chair.

Sousuke’s leaning forward. “So it’s true, isn’t it. You two had a thing together.”

“We had no such thing!” Rei protests, suspiciously fast, waving his hands in the air dismissively.

“There WAS that thing at Regionals,” Nagisa says, surprisingly subdued. “That last night.”

Sousuke leans further. “I _knew_ it.”

“There’s a reason Haru-chan doesn’t drink, you know,” Nagisa says mysteriously. “Or, _didn’t_ drink. Did you guys turn him onto that too?”

“Hey, this wine is 2,500-American a bottle. We aren’t just ‘drinking,’ here,” Sousuke says. Haru sort of looks like he’s wishing someone would beam him up and out of this mess.

“Okay, everybody just – just STOP.” Rin’s got _both_ hands on the table now – his “I mean business” pose – and he pins Rei with his stare. “You’re worried about Haru, and that’s totally admirable, and I _get_ it. Shit, I wish someone had told us to think about this stuff before we did anything!” He looks pointedly over to someplace between Haru and Sousuke, who give him blank looks so identical, Gou has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing and wrecking the moment.

Then he’s back to Rei. “But you don’t have to. Because we all love Haru as much as you do, okay? We see why you’re so … so taken with him.” He falters and looks down at his (now-empty) plate, and keeps his eyes almost-shyly down as he finally goes on. “We’re still working it out, but you can rest assured we’re gonna take good care of him.” He fiddles with his fork, and his cheeks are so hectic Gou aches for him.

“Oh, Rin,” she murmurs, and he looks hurriedly up to be sure he’s not being made fun of. She just gives him a little reassuring smile, sneaks a look over to find Haru – consciously or not – finding _his_ fork strangely compelling, too.

Rei clears his throat. “Well. I – I can’t say my concerns are totally gone … but, thank you, Rin. I’m glad to hear it.”

Another uncharacteristic silence, as the confessions in the air softly settle back to Earth.

“So. Who’s up for strip-poker?” Haru deadpans.

*

Gou’s pawing for her door key in her giant bag when her fingers brush against an unfamiliar piece of paper. She frowns, pulls it out and unfolds it.

It’s the scoresheet from their (regular) poker game, their dippy little nicknames across the top and hashmarks for each hand they took. It ended up being close, with only “Red Snapper” in a distant last due to Rin’s total inability to keep a poker face. But “Mackerel Man” blew them all out of the water. _Especially_ after he lost his first hand and whipped off the yukata – apparently missing the general consensus that while they were all feeling surprisingly cozy together, it didn’t extend THAT far.

Gou thinks the funniest part was possibly Makoto – who _screamed_ “Haru!!” like the guy had just leapt in front of traffic. Haru just blinked back at him, and eventually accepted the yukata that Makoto retrieved from the floor and was thrusting at him, but would only wear it over his shoulders like a petite boxer, totally comfortable baring his toned chest and abs in the cool room.

Everyone else’s game suffered mysteriously after that.

She smiles down at the paper – then idly turns it over and freezes.

_Gou! It was almost too fun to meet you. I feel like we’re destined for … SOMETHING, anyway. It’s not every day you meet your alternate-universe … whatever we are! I’d love to get together sometime if you’re up for it. Sei._

And in big strokes under that, he’s scrawled his number.

***

Oooookay my lovelies … we’ve reached a very important point: the END OF ALL THE BIG-REVEAL-Y chapters! Not that people won’t have plenty to discover and share in the chaps to come (ahem-hem RINHARU etc etc ahem-hem) (plus possibly some SeiGou, uh, “stuff” lol) (I see her as the unofficial owner of this harem) but things should be a lot more … “relaxed” now. Punctuated by times of total insanity. Because that’s just how all these dudes and ladies roll ;D

[MAKE GNOCCHI](http://allrecipes.com/recipe/gnocchi-i/), people – it’s simple and delicious! (Sadly, I don’t know that “roasted red pepper vodka sauce” is really a thing, but gnocchi go with anything J). I also recommend making [Haru’s pineapple cheesecake](http://www.cdkitchen.com/recipes/recs/31/Baked-Pineapple-Cheese-Cake98280.shtml) ‘cause cheesecake.

And [that wine](http://www.askmen.com/fine_living/wine_dine_archive/15_wine_dine.html) Sou wooed Haru with their first night together (…?) that they’re drinking? Yep, it really is $2,500 a bottle. I just hope Sou has a decent financial planner…


	31. Dream date

Okay … this is OFFICIALLY ridiculous. All the absolutely perfect fanart people have taken the time to do, and what do we have here? An [uncanny portrait of Haru](http://maybeillride-changemylife.tumblr.com/post/116912282954/sexythewalkingcatfish-idk-which-one-i-like) being his usual fashion-car-crash self from Ch. 30, by the incomparable [sexywhales](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sexywhales/pseuds/sexywhales). This chap is dedicated to you, dear. I don’t deserve you ;) <333

***

Haru is being a COMPLETE pain in the ass.

Rin looks up from his laptop, where he’s sprawled out on the couch in Sousuke’s living room scrolling through Tokyo job postings. Haru’s cleaning the kitchen. _Again._ Rin isn’t sure if Haru’s just that much of a neat-freak, or so distracted and nervous he has no clue he’s already done it. Fifteen minutes ago, in fact.

Tossing a wet rag on the counter as he passes, Haru storms to the little closet where Sousuke keeps his cleaning supplies, emerging with the vacuum. The high-end machine is impressively quiet, but still fills the penthouse with a hollow drone as he attacks the tiled floor.

“…Haru!!” Sousuke’s voice bellows out of the study, fighting with the sound of the vacuum. Haru doesn’t pause in his attack. Sousuke’s trying again. “Dammit, Haru, give it a rest! I have people for that!”

 _Now_ Haru flips off the machine. But it’s just to yell back (at the guy he’s SUPPOSED to be writing with at the moment…).

“Oh, ‘people,’ sure. Do you even know their _names,_ Sou? These poor women who bust their asses for you and break their backs and hurt their knees to clean your palace here?” And then turns the vacuum on and goes back to his creepy-possessed work.

Sousuke’s out of the study now, marching over with a _look_ that actually sort of scares Rin. Rin’s tough. He can face pretty much anything. But he wouldn’t wanna be on the receiving end of Sousuke’s wrath right now…

Haru doesn’t even notice he’s there or is willfully ignoring him – until Sousuke reaches down and switches the vacuum off, that is. The motor dwindles and Sousuke stares down, Haru stares up, centimeters between them and Rin silently prepares to hop off the couch and intervene if this thing gets … violent.

“You don’t want me taking work from your little slaves?” Haru says coolly.

“I don’t want you going nuts when we’re supposed to be _working._ You came out to ‘get a snack’ half an hour ago, Haru.” He crosses his bulky arms on his chest, and Rin gets a lecturing-dad vibe from the scene that’s exacerbated by their similar looks. Despite the uncomfortably crackling pissed-off energy in the air, he’s a little embarrassed by how hot it looks…

Rin closes his laptop with a snap that succeeds in getting the writers to look up at him, surprised like they forgot he was even there. “Well, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to it. I’m gonna go see if all your Cinderella-ing has woken poor Makoto up. After all you _did to him_ last night.” He raises a _now don’t you feel bad?_ eyebrow at Haru and heaves himself off the couch, feeling the weight of their silent stares as they follow him out of the room.

He gently pushes the handle to the master-bed down and eases the door open. And yep, Mako is stirring slowly, sprawled in the middle of the giant bed and just a vague group of bumps and ridges under the comforter. The pillow over his face shifts off with a little thump as he moves. (Rin will never get over the vaguely disturbing sight Makoto always presents when he sleeps alone, preferring a pillow on his head like someone has just finished murdering him.)

He crosses quietly to the bed and just stands at the side, watching as Mako blinks groggily around in the dimness until he focuses on Rin.

“…hi,” Mako yawns up at him, stretching sleepily. “Are … are cleaning people here? Do I need to get up?”

Rin smirks as he gets onto the bed, crawls over to and on top of him. “You _would_ say that. Do you always think of others before yourself, Mako?”

Makoto just blinks up at him, then slowly smirks back. “Oh! I just didn’t want a bunch of nice middle-aged women finding this big sex-god in the bedroom and, like, passing out. I don’t feel like doing CPR this morning.”

Rin rolls his eyes, one hand unable to resist sneaking up into Makoto’s messy nap-hair. “Yeeeeah. ‘Sex-god.’ No, it’s Haru. Homeboy has now cleaned the kitchen … uh … twice today? Three times? I’ve lost count.” He strokes through Makoto’s strong, almost coarse hair. “I just left Sousuke out there about to tear Haru a new one and Haru off on some Marxist rant. Good times.”

Makoto frowns up at him. “This isn’t like Haru at all. He’s been crazy since dinner. Last _night,_ God…!”

Rin knows what Makoto means without elaboration. Haru was – _possessed._ They stood in the parking garage at Rei and Nagisa’s, touching base about where to next, and Haru just _looked_ at them all, at Sousuke, Makoto, finally at him, eyes wild. “We’re going back to your place,” he told Sousuke.

Sousuke’s friend Sei laughed and made some comment about “doing what the little lady wants,” and Haru _glared_ at him like “don’t fuck with me, dude.” Sei laughed and shook his head, he and Sousuke got into the Jaguar without comment, and then they were all reconvening at the penthouse after Sei’s ride home.

…and Haru – Haru was ON them all, turning to each of them like he’d had ten espressos or something – stronger. _Attacking_ them with frantic, almost violent kisses; reaching down to find Makoto’s cock even as he sucked on Sousuke’s neck, as he fumbled out for Rin with his other arm. They never even made it to the bedroom; he just knelt before them as they sprawled side-by-side on the couch, sucking their cocks one after another with an almost grim determination. He brushed any of them off when they would try to pull him up with them, to return his favor; and it was _good,_ Rin can’t deny seeing his … men _“used”_ like that so ruthlessly got him hard, and that his climax when it came was almost painful in its intensity. But Haru’s darkness, his insistence – Rin had been on certain sets, at particularly debauched “wrap-parties,” and Haru’s humorlessness reminded him of some of the goings-on there. That he’d just as soon forget.

Makoto’s hand on Rin’s chest distracts him from the too-vivid memory. “…maybe this Kisumi guy is the straw who broke the camel’s back.” Makoto’s face is relaxed, eyes unfocused somewhere past Rin’s shoulder over him, his “deep in thought” look. “One guy too many. Maybe it’s sort of pushing him over the edge…?”

“So Haru’s ‘edge’ is turning into a sex-demon, huh? Can’t say I’m complaining,” Rin quips, while he knows that … _thing_ last night was not okay. Not-Haru.

“Really…?” Mako has this cool look now, and Rin knows he’s in trouble. Bingo – the bigger guy flips them, pinning Rin’s wrists by his head as he stares up stupidly. “So you’d take advantage of him, hmm? Oh, Rin. I’m disappointed in you.” Then he sinks down, kissing Rin so abruptly and aggressively Rin’s moaning into his mouth and just reacting, helpless. _Totally_ in the passenger seat. “Captain Makoto”’s in the house, then –

Until he notices a dark shape in his peripheral vision, _close,_ and he makes a startled breathy-little cry into Mako’s mouth, and Mako jerks up and away from him.

Haru’s _right next_ to them on the bed, curled up in his compact little kneel, staring at them like they’re an interesting exhibit at the zoo.

“ _God,_ Haru! What the fuck!” Rin snarls, as Makoto pushes away from Rin to sit back and tentatively touch Haru’s shoulder.

“…you okay, Haru-chan?” he asks, voice full of concern. Rin feels no such emotion at the moment.

Haru just gazes impassively at them. “You two should leave room for Jesus, you know,” he says finally, with an almost-smug look.

“What? Is he into threesomes?” Rin fires back, and gets a vicious satisfaction at the instant hardening of Haru’s pretty face. Makoto makes some laugh-gasp sound above him and then Haru’s launching up and away from them, gone so fast it’s almost like he was never there. The door to the master-bath slams and the shower roars on.

Makoto sighs down at him. “Oh, Rin. Really?”

“I can’t take much more of this,” Rin growls, worming out from under Mako and slithering off the bed. He leaves poor Makoto bewildered as he storms out the door.

Sousuke’s at his desk when Rin appears at the study door, rapping on it to get his attention. He looks up, face pinched and set under this expensive-looking set of headphones, and twitches them onto his neck. He stays hunched at the edge of his chair, though.

Rin sighs and comes around the desk, darkly amused at the glowing white of a completely blank page when he gets a look at Sousuke’s screen. Sousuke just looks up at him silently, tapping his fingers on the desk. Rin stares down.

“… _what??_ ” the big man finally demands, leaning back in his chair suddenly and making it creak. “God, you’re as bad as he is!”

“About that,” Rin says, almost pleasantly. Sousuke’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I check your man out for the day?”

Sousuke blinks up at him, face blank. “That’s ridiculous. You wanna scan his barcode too?”

“Good idea! He could get it as a tattoo!” Rin beams obnoxiously down and Sousuke sighs, rubbing his temples.

“Rin. If you can manage to spend ten minutes with him without killing him, he’s all yours. Maybe if he’s gone I could actually get something done, anyway.” Rin has his doubts, given the unhealthy codependence between these two he’s seen already, but keeps that to himself.

“Thanks! I’ll be sure to get him back in one piece, dad. It may be late though. Don’t wait up.”

Sousuke stares up for a few more blinks, then flicks his hand dismissively, turning back to his empty screen. “Go, then. I don’t envy you.” He’s staring grimly back at the screen with the (oddly quiet) headphones back on, without another word. It’s good enough for Rin.

Rin shuffles back into the bedroom and smiles, helplessly, at Makoto, leaning against the little sofa in his black boxer-briefs, arms crossed uncomfortably. So he hasn’t progressed one iota in his morning either, staring at the closed bathroom door like he’s unsure what to do next.

“Leave it to me,” Rin says breezily, heading over and trying the handle. Unlocked. _Haru, you shameless tantruming teenage GIRL._

The spacious room is completely choked with steam, Haru having ignored the fan. The sound of the water is practically thunder as he heads to the shower, peeks around the corner.

Haru’s standing, rigid and bent over, with both hands on the wall before him, as the jets slam into him full-force. His head is down, black hair curtaining his face, and if he hears Rin at the entrance he doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Hey. Bitch-face. Hurry up and finish, I’m taking you out.”

Haru stays down. “Fuck you, Rin. I’m busy.”

Rin snorts. Oh, _wow,_ “diva” doesn’t begin to cover this. He feels a grin bloom on his face. “Yeah, I can see that. _Reeeal_ busy. Now quit being such a spoiled little brat, get something on and bring your jammers. We’re going to the pool.”

The head turns just slightly to him and Rin spies his nose, chin under Haru’s outstretched arm. “You don’t need me to go with you if you wanna use the pool here, Rin. What are you, eight?”

“No. Not this pool. The one at my community center.” The face turns to him a little more. “This is the best time of the day – nobody’ll be there, and it’s adult lap-swim. No obnoxious kids to dodge.” He leans casually against the glass-block wall. “And you’re coming. I wanna race you.”

Haru straightens, slowly, and fumbles the water off. The silence is _too_ quiet, after all that noise; and Rin’s breathing sounds too loud suddenly in the close space, as his eyes travel – like they’re compelled – over his slim, pale form, sleek with the water like he’s a sea creature. An otter, or something. Graceful without a centimeter of wasted space.

Haru’s turning, then, stepping silently over to him, and Rin’s breath that was too loud catches in his throat. His face – his face is … a fight between angry and hopeful, and Rin’s heart hurts. But he’s able to send a calm look to Haru. Serene, even.

“You know I’m gonna beat you, right?” Haru asks, voice low without a hint of a tease, eyes traveling restlessly over Rin’s face like he’s tracing its lines in his memory. He reaches a hand out, it’s wet of course but Rin doesn’t stop him, laying it high on Rin’s chest. Right over his heart, that he’s sure Haru can feel going much too-fast.

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks.

“Mmmm, doesn’t matter who wins,” he says, voice straining to stay casual. ‘Cause his words sure as fuck aren’t. “Because you know how you said you wanted to see my face for yourself, when I come?” He gets a thrill of victory as Haru’s giant blue eyes widen. “Yeah. Well, you’re gonna get it. Tonight. When you’re so deep inside me I can practically taste you.” He leans over and gives Haru a peck on his mouth, Haru’s lips parted slightly in his own particular brand of stupefaction, and turns to go.

“Hurry up and get dressed already!” he shoots over his shoulder as he leaves.

*

“That’s so bizarre that we go to the same pool. I can’t believe we’ve never run into each other.” Haru and he are standing on the pooldeck, in their jammers and skins respectively, gazing at the big, quiet expanse of water. It couldn’t have gone better if he’d had all Sousuke’s money and bought the place out for the morning. They have it totally to themselves – except for the teen girl lifeguarding, that is, who indisputably has her eyes pinned on them as she sits on the viewing platform.

“I know! I live right around here, so it’s really convenient. Or, was, until we ended up with the LuxuryPool that is.” He grins at Haru, who just snorts back. It’s amazing how much more _calm_ Haru is, even though they haven’t even jumped in. Like being by water is all it takes to make him happy. Rin looks at him wistfully. _I wish it was that easy for ME._

“LuxuryPool. Right. God, see how the other one-percent swims,” Haru scoffs, not stretching or doing anything to prepare for the _ass-kicking_ Rin’s about to hand him, just gazing at the water with the funniest sparkle in his eyes.

“Eh, well, that’s Sousuke. Guy makes a FETISH out of consumption.”

“Tell me about it,” Haru said darkly, but he has a tiny smile that gives him away. Rin can’t help himself, throwing an arm over Haru’s elegant shoulders … and, surprisingly, Haru lets him. They both gaze at the still water.

“I’m really, really glad you agreed to come with me,” Rin says, some weird attack of nerves or shyness invading his voice and making it crack a little like a kid going through puberty. “I’ve … I’ve been needing to spend some time with you for _ever._ I think I’m the only one who hasn’t had a chance yet.”

Haru’s eyes are glimmering narrowly at him, close, _too_ close, and Rin catches his mistake too late. “…ah, Rin. Have you been _jealous_ of Sousuke and Makoto?” He’s smiling at Rin, in absolutely-real pleasure, and Rin realizes faintly he’s not mad at being made fun-of, not in the slightest, if it gets Haru _smiling at him_ like that.

“Oh gimme a fucking break, Diva. I wanna RACE. And sadly, it appears you’re my only competition in this outfit. So, duh.” He shoves Haru away lightly and the littler guy doesn’t bitch at him, doesn’t protest at all. Just huffs this tiny, breathy laugh at him that makes Rin want to … to dive in the pool, to cool his sudden heat. Or maybe to fly.

He turns abruptly and drops into the water, in the deep end, the cool an instant relief as it closes over his head. When he pops up Haru’s in the water too, in the lane next to him, reaching over the lane-line to grab his neck –

And pull him awkwardly in –

And _kiss_ him, messily, searching Rin’s mouth with his tongue like he’s looking for something, hand tight at his nape. Rin makes some kind of strangled noise into Haru’s needy mouth.

Then he releases Rin, holding him out at arms’-length and doing that _search_ of his face again, and Rin feels his cheeks heat. “…so – this your great psych-out strategy?” he asks Haru. _Because it’s working._

Haru shrugs, turning away like he _didn’t_ just attack him, pulling goggles down from his forehead and tipping the water out before pushing them on. “Hurry up,” he says, focused on the other end 25 meters away.

Rin shakes his head, seized with a laughing fit, fumbling his own goggles down. “I wanna see you kiss the guy next to you when you swim in the Olympics. Get all the news outfits taking your picture.”

 _That_ gets Haru looking his way, shocked then smirking hard, and grabbing the wall behind him. Leaning forward, like he’s a crossbow ready to fire.

“Call it,” Rin says, on the edge of breathlessness, mirroring Haru’s pose as he grabs the wall in his own lane. Haru shoots the briefest look to him – his game-face giving away absolutely nothing, almost like at the poker game last night. But that was fun. And this is for real.

“On three. Two.”

Rin’s perfectly still, poised to take off.

“– _One!”_

And they’re firing away from the wall, as straight and hard as two arrows, cutting the water in half as they tear to the other side. Rin’s getting almost _no_ churn from Haru’s lane, no interference, almost like Haru’s not moving the water at all, and that makes ZERO sense … and Rin’s snatching glances to the side to solve his mystery –

They’re hitting the wall, too fast, flicking themselves into two totally simultaneous flips, the momentum so intense they’re over again before he knows it. Feet to the wall, two coiled springs, and Rin’s heart thrills at their timing. He memorizes the moment like the flash of a camera – their thighs bunching, their arms sweeping back forward, their explosion for the finish – _in utterly, absolutely perfect agreement._

Then they’re flying on the current of their creation, and Rin has no sense of what his arms are doing, his legs, he’s just a wave and he _shouldn’t_ waste movement to look over but he _has to_ and Haru’s just lines – and curves – looking over at Rin like he has to look at Haru.

They slam into the wall, rocking in their own wake, breathing harsh and heavy. Haru’s under his laneline and in Rin’s space before he knows it, and he’s serious, so serious. Pushes his goggles up into his hair, and the heaving water winks light back from his eyes.

“You won,” Haru says quietly, treading even as Rin has a hand on the wall. Rin ducks his free arm around, wrapping Haru’s lower back and tugging him closer. His skin is hot, his lats shifting under Rin’s hand as he moves. He lays his forehead to Haru’s, and shuts his eyes. Haru’s too close to keep them open.

“No,” he decides. “ _You_ won. Some of us are able to pay attention, Haru. _Some_ of us just like to live in our own little world.” Rin smiles. “Actually, I’m jealous. ‘Own little world’ sounds pretty fucking great.”

Haru’s arms have somehow settled around Rin’s neck. “Well, shit. _That’s_ easy.” Rin hears the smile in his voice. “A tie. Would you believe me if I told you I love ties?”

“When you dress like that? Uh, _no,_ actually,” Rin says, then almost groans at his own lame attempt at humor. He takes a deep breath, their chests coming together as his fills. “I buy it. You’re a big freelove commie type. Of _course_ you love ties. Though,” he leans them apart, enjoying Haru’s crooked smile. “I think you were totally into that. You may SAY you love ties, but I’m thinking you were trying to win. Sorry to burst your little bubble there, Haru.”

“Hmmm,” Haru says thoughtfully – then Rin’s _down,_ Haru dunking him under by the shoulders and he’s so surprised he yells as he goes, the world disappearing in a mess of bubbles. He fights back up spitting water and Haru’s gone.

Rin spins for a second – and finally sees him, heading leisurely towards their towels on the wall. Almost _sauntering._ Little _shit_. “…Hey! Haru!” he yells, hoping he sounds less desperate – less excited? – than he feels.

Haru peeks casually over his shoulder as he tosses his towel over his head, scrubbing his hair, and he’s so _damn CUTE_ like that Rin’s almost mad. He’s too cute. It makes absolutely no sense. _Nothing about this guy_ makes sense.

“We can check the race off the Dream Date list,” Haru says, the damn towel still on his head. “So now I know. What’s next?” He lays a hand on the locker room doorhandle. “Coming?”

Rin’s out of the water like a shark coming in for the kill, and heading for the door so fast the lifeguard yells for him to walk.

*

Haru is NOT happy when Rin stops them in front of their next destination, standing next to Rin and looking up at the sleek windows of the chichi men’s boutique with distrust that would be hilarious if Rin wasn’t sure laughing would hurt his feelings.

“…is this some half-assed makeover?” Haru’s hands clench on the strap of his messenger bag, staring up at the perfectly-dressed mannequins in the shop windows with what seems like bitterness. “’Cause if so, I can save you the trouble. I’m just fine, thanks.” He glares at Rin. “Totally happy, in fact.”

“Haru! This is no makeover, believe me. I know a lost cause when I see one,” and Rin winks to soften his little dig. Haru tilts his chin down at him in an _oh, really, dickhead_ look. “I just – wanna treat you. Get you something _you_ really like, for fun, so you can go out for a fancy dinner with your guy when he comes.” Rin’s reaching out like he can’t help himself, running a hand down Haru’s arm. “And maybe _I_ wanna see you all dressed up, too.”

Haru looks torn – stuck in some moral dilemma, deep existential crisis, or something. But then he peeks at Rin from the corner of his eye. “…is this one of those romantic comedy clichés? Where you’re the sassy gay friend who shows the total reject girl she’s really a beautiful swan? Or something?” And Rin’s fantasizing, delusional, but Haru’s definitely relaxing, the slightest traces of a smile around the corners of his little mouth.

Rin grins back, teeth on full display. “So I’m the sassy gay friend?”

“ _Duh,”_ Haru says.

Rin shrugs. “Alright then. Come on, reject girl. Let’s find your fucking inner swan, or whatever.”

“Mmm. Okay,” Haru says with his one-shouldered shrug, leaning in to Rin so naturally, _comfortably,_ like they aren’t on a busy Tokyo sidewalk. In broad daylight, the _nerve._ Takes Rin by the nape of the neck again, tilts in deeply, softly lays his lips on Rin’s. Pauses _just_ long enough … and not nearly. And Rin’s just fucking blinking, wordless, AGAIN, for about the twentieth time, and the day is young. His lips are tingling – buzzing – when Haru pulls away and opens the door, and he shakes his head almost angrily as he hurries to follow.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” a clerk asks, coming up to meet them and giving them a discreet once-over. Rin knows _he_ looks fine, like he belongs, in the black tee patterned with drifting gray smoke that’s his favorite (…that he wore on their Ill-Fated Stakeout, actually). In his fitted white jeans. Even his “rockstar” hair is okay here. Haru, though – Haru’s in one of Sousuke’s shirts again, one that’s particularly giant on him and he’s floating gauzily around in. Between that, his purple skinny-jeans from last night, his flip-flops and messenger bag and CRAZY hair, giant chick shades shoved up on the top of his head, he’s basically a teenage girl. Maybe a college student. Maybe.

And Rin makes a snap decision in about half a second that if this suavely-dressed clerk gives Haru _any_ shit, even looks at him wrong, he’s gonna be so fucking sorry he came to work today.

But this must be one of those places so upscale people will be nice to you even if you’re a card-carrying freak, ‘cause the dude just smiles benignly at them. “Looking for anything in particular?” he asks politely.

Rin gives him a smile back, setting a hand on Haru’s shoulder. “Actually, sorta. My man here needs something _hot._ Like, something classy, but that still shows him off.” Rin searches for words for a second, unsure why this feels so important, but just knowing it is. “Uh … flashy, but not trashy…?”

Haru surprises him by huffing his little low laugh again, sort of shy-sounding but completely genuine. Rin could listen to just that sound for – hours, and hours.

“ _What?_ You got a problem with the flashy part or the trashy part?”

“Nothing.” Haru crooks the corner of his mouth at him. “I just think you described yourself. You’re making me over to be YOU.”

Rin makes a strangled little sound. “Haru, you freaking ignoramus. _This is not a makeover._ ”

The clerk is smiling as he glances between the two of them, like this is the most interesting thing to happen to him all morning. “No, excuse me for interrupting your conversation, but we aren’t going to make you over. We’re going to unlock the REAL you!”

“Omigod, Rin,” Haru growls, under his breath. Then he sighs to the clerk, who appears to be _totally_ into this. “Okay. Do me. Unlock me. Go nuts.”

And the guy fucking grabs Haru by the elbow and sweeps them towards the back of the store, making small talk, asking about the occasion. “He’s meeting his Internet boyfriend for the first time,” Rin dives in before Haru can blow his opportunity to make him squirm. The clerk looks over their shoulders at Rin with this eyebrows-raised _oh…?_ face.

“…and my friend here thinks I need to lie about who I am to this guy, so he gets the total wrong impression about who he’s been Skyping all this time,” Haru says, staring pointedly at Rin.

The clerk’s unfazed. “Good! So we want ‘knock his socks off.’ Edgy. I’m sensing that you’re edgy.” He’s busily pulling stuff off a rack of “edgy” coats, holding them up to a totally-not-playing-with-others Haru. Rin chews the inside of his cheek to hold back his laughter. He pats the guy’s arm.

“Actually, I think I have a good idea what to look for. Do you mind if we take it from here?”

The clerk gives Rin a knowing look, lays his selections over the rack. “Of course. I think you’ll do well! Please let me know if you need anything.” He glances between them again. “Have fun, you two.”

The guy glides away and Rin gets some kind of thanks out, busying himself flipping through the rack, willfully pretending Haru isn’t leaning against the wall just _watching_ him with his hands in his pockets. The weight of his cool blue gaze eventually gets too heavy and he turns to Haru, hand on a hip. “Yeah, well, a little participation would be nice, Haru. You _ever_ shopped in your life? Damn.”

Haru leans his head into the wall, eyes unwavering. “No, not really. I don’t have a fucking clue what looks ‘good.’ So it’s all you, I trust you. Make me look pretty, okay?” His eyes sorta dance, he’s clearly making fun of Rin like he does so well, but some part of him isn’t joking. It’s in his “call your bluff” fake-casual body language. In the challenge on his face, edging his voice.

Hell, yes, Rin’s ready to accept that challenge.

He throws himself into the hunt, “oooh”ing and muttering about fabrics and dragging Haru around like his own personal model to stand patiently as he holds stuff up to test fit, color, look. He pauses with his hand on something fitted and sorta _saucy_. “You trust me…?” he tries.

“I trust you.”

Rin adds the saucy little number to the heavy pile in his arms and jerks his head to the fitting rooms. “Follow me, my lord.”

True to the rest of the shop, the changing rooms are classy. Roomy enough he could probably have dragged Mako in with them, too. Hell, AND Sousuke. While they were at it, pile this Kissy-kid in too. Just have a giant group … fitting.

Rin makes a mental note.

And he – he’s suddenly in a scenario so ridiculous, so outlandish-over-the-top, he’d be ashamed of himself if he hadn’t fucking earned it. He’s comfortably leaning in the _cushy sort-of throne-like chair_ that’s in there (!), legs crossed, arm dangling over the top, like he’s some king and his personal jester is an uber-hottie who he has model for him instead of tell jokes. Haru’s so unperturbed at undressing in front of him, that’s the other thing. TOTAL lack of self-consciousness, for a guy so adamantly-insistent on presenting himself. Another piece of Haru’s puzzle clicks into place for Rin. As he casually witnesses Haru’s giant shirt and jeans hit the floor like he can’t wait to get them off, the depths of his “I don’t give a shit” are clear.

Rin’s jealous. He’s NEVER not given a shit in all of his 29 years. If he gave less of a shit, maybe he’d be a happier person overall. But it’s clear this is no choice, or act. It’s just how Haru _is._

And Rin loves it, loves it, loves it.

The little fashion plate turns back to Rin after shrugging into the two things on the top of the pile – his _saucy_ number, as it happens, and some pants Haru obviously just grabbed off the pile without a plan. Like he really does have zero sense of “conventional” fashion.

It’s a funny thing, though.

It’s _perfect._

“…how about this?” Haru’s facing himself now in the three-way mirror (another indulgence of this place that Rin’s envisioning having … multiple uses if they ever put this group-outing idea into play). Rin wants to laugh again at the look on Haru’s face reflected back over his shoulder, his total dispassion. Like he’s comparing cereal at the grocery store. Like he has NO CLUE about what he’s seeing.

The jacket caught Rin’s eye so completely, first of all, because of the color – this crystalline blue, this like _summer-sky_ blue, the blue of late-June that makes your mood better with one glance. The cut grabbed him, next, was what made him hesitant, not knowing if Haru was willing to go for it and be SEXY. ‘Cause that’s what this is, indisputably – a slim, just-this-side-of-TOO-tight take on the classic Chinese men’s coat, a stylized, open Mandarin collar defining Haru’s graceful neck. Drawing two daring lines that perfectly frame the hollow of his throat, the coat skimming Haru’s form and accentuating the curves of his ass. His ass, in a pair of black satin trousers that again hug his long legs without being painted-on.

Flashy, not trashy, in other words.

Rin remembers he was supposed to say something. A while ago. “Uh. I think we’re done here, Haru. You fucking power-shopper, I’m impressed.” He holds back his immature disappointment that his private show is over so fast.

“I can try this other stuff, if you want,” Haru offers, turning to face Rin, and he soaks in the sight of him, this slim, mysterious figure suddenly seeming taller, somehow. Coat teasing him with this _maddening_ stretch of pale skin, muscle, all the way down to his navel. Rin swallows.

“Nah, no need. This is the one.” He uncurls from the throne and steps over to Haru. Runs light hands down his arms, feeling the subtle raised-texture of the jacket, the whisper of the satin as his hands drift down over Haru’s narrow hips. Haru’s just watching him, face calm – almost serene – but Rin can hear it. The quickness of his breath, so quiet but unmistakable this close.

…so. He IS having an effect on the ice-princess, after all. Rin’s hands reverse their trip, sliding back and right up to cup Haru’s face. Haru’s eyes – bluer than the jacket – are huge, as Rin leans in to him. Kisses him, the heat of Haru’s mouth startling in the coolness of the room, the sound of Haru’s deep inhale through his nose reminding Rin of the waves rushing over the shore back home.

And it’s Haru’s turn to hold Rin’s hips now, and he’s so damn _gentle_ about it, like he’s cradling Rin in his hands, and it feels – so good. So unexpectedly protected, as Rin switches his angle to kiss Haru’s other side, humming softly into his mouth and dimly thinking – _his skin … his skin is satin, too._

Haru totally betrays his cool-kid act when Rin pulls away, chasing after his lips. Tries to actually _strain forward_ to reach him, like he’s in the desert and someone’s teasing him with a full canteen just out of reach. Rin stops him. And satisfaction races through him at the ANGER on Haru’s face. At being denied what he wants.

“…change of schedule. You’re coming home with me now,” Rin breathes.

*

“Come on in, make yourself at home – !” Rin says, leaning hard against his front door which finally opens with a little groan of wood-on-wood. He sweeps a hand and Haru steps into his apartment, seized by sudden nerves that he desperately hopes aren’t showing. Part of the tension is because of what they’re here to do, what Rin left him in no doubt about, hurrying Haru back into his clothes and tapping the edge of his credit card on the counter impatiently as the clerk folded the new coat and pants with practiced ease. Haru had tried to beat him to it, fumbling his own wallet out of his bag, but Rin refused. Grabbed his wallet away, in fact, held it as Haru stood paralyzed with embarrassment.

“Trust me. Seeing you in this…? More than worth it,” Rin had breathed into his ear, and Haru watched the clerk stifle a laugh as he ran Rin’s card.

And now he’s here, in Rin’s own little space, not so different from his own in size or simplicity, and his nerves also buzz at the _intimacy_ of it. This is where Rin sleeps, catches mindless late-night TV after a long day on a shoot when he’s too tired to do anything else, shares a beer or maybe tea as he collapses in his teen-boy laughter, with his sister, with Makoto.

Haru can practically _feel_ Makoto here, can almost see him out of the corner of his eye brushing his teeth at the sink as they walk past the bathroom, exclaiming over something Rin made him at the little dining room table off the kitchen, kicked back reading a book on Rin’s couch.

…Makoto, spread long on Rin’s little twin bed, where Rin insistently leads Haru when he dawdles too long in the living room. The big man lying back, head tilted to the side, throat working as Rin –

“…How can you do this with me?” Haru blurts, frozen in the threshold of the cozy room, eyes pinned to his flip-flops and then Rin’s black leather slip-ons as they come into his view. A firm finger touches his chin and Rin’s lifting his face, insistently, eyes searching Haru’s and a wrinkle of consternation between his expressive brows.

“What are you talking about?” He slides tentative arms around Haru, not to reach down and squeeze his ass or something, not to do _anything_ sexual, actually … just smoothing slowly over his back, soothingly, leaving tingling warmth where his hands pass. And he’s not badgering Haru, either, just looking at him with confusion and a little sadness, and Haru’s caught by the sudden, rare urge to cry.

He takes a shaky breath and tries, tries to put these big and foreign and unhappy feelings into words. “This – this is your private place, your place to be alone, and your place to be with Makoto.” If anything, Rin looks even _more_ confused at the mention of his boyfriend’s name, and a little angry too, in the narrowing of those deep eyes. The little pout of his lips.

“Haru, what the fuck. I’m serious, what are you even _talking_ about??”

Haru makes a shuddery sigh, standing so rigid in Rin’s comforting embrace the redhead could be hugging a tree. He doesn’t belong here. He’s intruding. What the fuck was he thinking??

“I’m busting in on your thing,” he gets out, finally, and his throat is so tight it sounds terrible. “I already slept with Makoto and now you want to sleep with me –”

“Now wait just a damn minute,” Rin cuts in, hands tight on Haru’s back. “You saying you _don’t_ want to sleep with me??” He stares daggers at Haru, so close Haru almost feels them land. “What the fuck was all the stuff you did to me today? Every time you kissed me? All those other times? Were you just messing with me?”

Haru tries to look away, to find _any_ escape from the ache in his heart, this knowledge that he’s an alien and doesn’t deserve this beautiful man, _his_ beautiful boyfriend. Rin won’t let him. Haru’s back facing Rin’s face – furious now, demanding – the redhead holding his cheeks in both hands. “ _No,_ Rin – I want you,” he whispers. “God, _God_ how I want you. But you’re _his._ You were never supposed to be mine.” And he pulls out of Rin’s hands, starts to back away. “This isn’t right.”

Rin – Rin fucking _growls,_ this wordless thing that like bursts out of his throat, and dives forward to close their distance.

And he just grabs Haru, crushes him in arms that aren’t gentle anymore, that are iron, that leave him struggling for breath as Rin kisses him, kisses him, _kisses_ him. Haru’s helpless – fucking helpless under Rin’s onslaught, working his hands up between them somehow, feeling the firm column of Rin’s neck and his almost angry moans as they vibrate under his seeking fingers.

They break, finally, and Haru’s gasping, too little air and too much too soon, but Rin’s pulling him insistently, almost rushing them to the bed. He turns them in a disorienting whirl then Haru finds himself down, on his back with his head almost falling off the side, squeezing Rin’s shoulders as the beautiful man looms over him, eyes flashing.

“Rin – !” he gets out, and Rin’s diving down, attacking his lips again and pushing shaking hands into his hair. When he finally lets up Haru wrenches his head to the side, panting, Rin nosing at his neck where Sou’s shirt has pulled down. And Haru just squeezes his eyes shut, and struggles to get his breath back somewhere in his control, Rin’s teeth on his neck shooting sparks down his shoulders, sweeping over his chest, his groin aching.

Rin’s sucking and teasing the other side of his neck now, and Haru abandons Rin’s shoulders, pulls the tie out of his hair so it can tickle Haru’s cheeks, his collarbone. It’s like falling asleep under a willow tree, the leaves brushing his face.

“What can I do…?” Rin finally murmurs against his skin.

“…wh-what?”

Rin lifts away, gazing down over him with his lips glistening and his _eyes_ glistening and such … need on his delicate face.

“What can I do to convince you? I WANT you, Haru. I’ve fucking wanted you since we walked in the coffeeshop and you were so nervous, you didn’t know what to do … and I hugged you –”

“I was _there_ , Rin,” Haru cuts in, snippy, bitchy, even – but it’s too much. It’s _all_ too much.

Rin fires off his laugh and leans down, and he’s kissing Haru’s forehead, and Haru could die of embarrassment, at Rin’s tenderness.

“Well sorry for setting the scene, Your Majesty.” He’s grinning hard, now. “So like I said, I _hugged_ you, and I smelled the chlorine, and I felt you, how strong you are. How cute you were, so nervous.” The grin softens and it does something to Rin’s unusual eyes … and Haru’s heart aches.

“…and I knew it. I was MEANT to know you. I was meant to have you. We’re supposed to do this, Haru – as much as you and Sousuke always fighting, the fucking _genius_ stuff you guys write together. You being able to read Makoto’s mind and the way he’s always thinking about you, worrying about you.” Rin swallows, and Haru is comforted he’s not the only one overwhelmed, the only one fighting with too much, too soon. “You and me, Haru – we’re supposed to race. In the pool, here in bed, being pains in the ass to each other.” He lowers his head to Haru’s shoulder, like he’s spent, and his breath tickles Haru’s damp neck.

“That’s it. I don’t know why, I just know it’s true.”

“I love you,” Haru says suddenly, the words popping out of his mouth too loud, fast enough Rin’s jerking up to look at him in some kind of shock. He storms on without a conscious thought. “I love you, I never got a chance to tell you that first night we all got together, and I loved you then. You piss me off so much and you rile me up and –” He finally catches up with his words – with his RANT, more like – and looks away at the insanity of it all. Rin just stares down and doesn’t say a word.

“…and you make everything around you _brighter._ It’s like I’m high, the colors are clearer, the edges sharper, and it’s because _you’re_ there, making that happen.” He stops, studying Rin’s arm where his flexed bicep strains against the black t-shirt. “It’s so fucking stupid, and it’s driving me crazy, this is _all_ driving me crazy … but I still know that’s true, too.”

Rin reaches down, runs the back of his hand up Haru’s cheek so hesitantly, just the lightest kiss of a touch. Haru blinks up, waiting for a word, for _anything,_ feeling like he’s floating on his back in the open ocean without any idea where he is, miles and miles from shore.

When Rin finally speaks it’s so low Haru can barely hear him. “…I want you, Haru.” His face is so serious – all the joking and the confusion and the anger gone. “I want you inside me. Will you?”

Haru blinks, the tiniest whispers of fear tickling the edges of his mind. “I’ve never done that,” he says, stiltedly, feeling like a fucking failure. This beautiful man who’s had more experience than anyone, who’s had fucking _Makoto_ and now that Haru has had him too, knows there’s no way in hell he can measure up. He’s a child, a stupid socially-inept teenager with this _man,_ and how can he possibly do this?

“There’s no one else,” Rin says softly, almost like he’s Makoto seeing Haru’s thoughts splayed across his face. “There’s just you and me. Please, Haru.”

And Haru nods, dumbly, and the happiness that dances across Rin’s face almost hurts to see, the joy in his eyes. He pulls back, gliding down Haru’s body with practiced ease, undoes Haru’s jeans with quick fingers. The air is irrationally cool on his skin as he feels Rin get rid of his jeans and jammers, as he crosses his arms over his face and welcomes the blackness, like by shutting off one sense he can somehow manage the riot of feeling caused by touch, as Rin’s hot mouth engulfs his half-hardness. Caused by hearing, as the quiet of the little bedroom is softly interrupted by the rhythmic sounds of Rin’s mouth on him, his own moans that he tries to hold back. It’s … decadent, and totally fucking lewd, and everything is just faintly punctuated by the feel of Rin’s sharp teeth, even as he skillfully holds them back. And it’s like Rin has unlocked the purest pleasure, seeping from where they’re joined, curling through the tense muscles of his hips, his abs, reaching through him to the pulse deep inside keeping time with his heartbeat. Too fast.

Rin’s mouth is gone and gentle hands are pushing his arms away, and the light of the room is shocking after the darkness, and Rin fills his vision again. His flushed face, his bright eyes, the crazy hair falling around him, and Haru can only stare and struggle to get his breathing back where it should be.

“I’m going to ride you,” Rin says matter-of-factly, but Haru feels the quiver in his hands where they hold Haru’s arms, can feel his excitement ( _and nerves…?_ ). “It’s so easy, Haru – you don’t have to do a thing, you just leave it to me and lie back and enjoy.”

There’s so much Haru could say. So many tasteless or just jerky jokes he could make, to lighten the air, get Rin to scowl. But no words come, he’s just agape at the sight of Rin as he easily peels off his stylish tee, tosses it away. He’s totally helpless as Rin turns to him next, insistent, yanking Sou’s big shirt up and over his head – and they’re both bare, now, and Haru can’t stop his hands from reaching up, smoothing his open palms across Rin’s strong chest. Beautiful, he’s so fucking _beautiful,_ Sou’s like a marble statue by Michelangelo come to life and Mako is all solid warmth, while Rin is … not of this world, somehow. He curses the uselessness of words, he supposedly an expert with them, reduced to incoherent clichés.

“…you’re beautiful, Rin,” he says baldly, running tentative thumbs over his small red nipples, getting Rin to moan. “Just – so, fucking beautiful.”

Rin huffs, grabbing his outstretched hands and stilling them. “Pot calling the kettle black, _Haru._ ” His smile is somehow shy as he ducks down to kiss Haru again, then pulls back to shimmy out of his jeans so fast Haru has no time to help, or maybe do it himself, but he’s so overwhelmed he’s not sure he could get up, if he wanted. Then Rin’s back over him, kneeling and resting his head in the crook of Haru’s shoulder as he reaches back to finger himself, to get himself ready for Haru, and Haru’s embarrassment spikes.

“You shouldn’t have to do that! Dammit, Rin – can – let me do that for you!” he says angrily, but Rin just chuckles into his neck, and goosebumps race themselves across his chest.

“It’s _fine,_ Haru, you big gentleman.” Rin sounds breathless as he moves and stretches over Haru, and Haru swallows and closes his eyes again. “It’s _all good._ I love to do it. And it doesn’t take much, for me.” Haru’s eyes fly open – _Rin’s the bottom, Rin’s ALWAYS the bottom, this is just another day at the office for him_ – and Rin has a condom smoothed down over Haru, is slicking him with lube he’s produced from somewhere –

Haru is finally able to stop him with a tight hand on Rin’s wrist, as he straddles Haru, about to take him in.

“I know you do this all the time – you’ve probably lost count by now,” Haru says almost desperately, Rin looking concerned at the delay. “Please, Rin – be yourself, you don’t have to put on a show.” Rin blinks down at him. “Just … take what you need. Enjoy yourself. Please.” And Haru’s tempted – so fucking _tempted_ to hide his face again, but Rin just sorta melts, everything about him softens, in some kind of silent understanding, and Haru is faint with relief.

Then Rin’s reaching back for him, and his hand is sure as he keeps Haru steady, as he slides smoothly down to rest. He’s … Haru’s wordless, again, the heat around him somehow _alive_ and insistent and just completely encompassing, it’s the fullest 360-degree sensation he’s ever experienced outside the water, and he can’t stop the groan that pushes out of him, or the deathgrip he has on Rin’s thighs.

And Rin’s moving … he’s like a wave, rolling his hips forward and letting the motion carry up his abs, his chest … rocking back … the muscles of his torso moving in concert, and it – is – utterly hypnotic. Haru leans his head back helplessly, a tuneless hum drifting out of him as the curling heat wraps further and deeper into him… And Rin’s hands are tensing and relaxing almost painfully on his chest, and Rin’s _loud,_ making little moans and grunts and muttering “… _Haru,_ ah, Haru…” almost absentmindedly under his breath. No act. No show. Just Rin being _Rin,_ and fierce happiness bursts into Haru’s mind that his message was received, that they’re just feeling, together.

Haru creeps a hand over, to where Rin’s cock bounces against his stomach with each roll of his hips, slides shy fingers around. Rin hisses in surprise.

“…so, what – we racing now, Ha…Haru?” He quits rocking, leans over his folded legs and starts just _fucking_ himself in earnest, ducking down, grabbing Haru’s head in his hands and resting their foreheads together like he’s too caught-up and can’t manage a kiss. Haru plants a hand in the small of his flexing back, his other hand tight and slippery with precum as Rin moves, thrusting himself into Haru’s waiting hand. Rin’s eyes – Haru’s vision is filled with them, all he sees is _red_ and now HE’s the one growling, deep in the back of his throat each time Rin falls back over him.

“I … I’m winning –” Haru gasps out, as the whole lower half of him ties in knots and _releases –_ it’s fucking bliss – and he feels himself shooting, up and into Rin’s heat.

“You fucker…” Rin wheezes, collapsing in breathless huffs of laughter as he slows his pace, and Haru takes the opposite tack, working his hand in swift strokes on him, down by the head. “Ahhh – ah! Fuck, fuck, Haru … God…!” Rin’s hands clutch on his cheeks and Haru feels the wet between them as Rin comes, the red filling his vision gone as Rin squeezes his eyes shut.

He slows his hand, lightens his touch so it’s practically nothing, almost just a caress up and down. Up … and down. Rin’s spent, boneless, sweaty chest pressed to Haru’s and face hidden in Haru’s neck. Haru lays a kiss on his temple, and they just … stop everything, just the sound of exhausted breaths cutting the sudden silence.

Haru wraps his arms around Rin’s slick back, idly draws his hands up and down like Rin did for him, enjoying the looseness of his powerful muscles. He moves his lips to Rin’s temple and just rests there, loving the salt on Rin’s skin. “…thank you,” he finally says quietly, “for popping my cherry. I was starting to think I’d never get the chance.”

Rin huffs hot air into his neck in a gust of amusement. “Sousuke won’t let you fuck him?”

“Are you kidding? The only time it’s even come up was our first time. I think he was just trying to be on his best behavior.”

Rin pulls up, eyes dancing, a little scowl on his face. Haru loves the contradiction. _So very Rin._ “Okay, that is just wrong. It’s the 21st century. Somebody has to tell him he can switch sides, it won’t make him any less of a man.” Rin lays his forehead down on Haru’s again, like he’s comfortable there. “We’ll set you up with Makoto. Don’t worry. I bet this Kisumi’ll be up for it too!” Rin tips up and lightly bites the tip of Haru’s nose, and he reflexively bats Rin away.

“I’m serious! You know teenagers and their willingness to try anything once.” Rin pulls himself up to sit over Haru, hair a total sweaty mess, flush marring his shoulders and upper chest, sticky with come. Haru drinks in the sight.

“He isn’t a teenager, dipshit,” Haru says, vaguely thinking _you’re still in him, in Matsuoka Rin, in this totally obnoxious beautiful thing, he hasn’t pulled away from you, and he looks content to stay like this for hours. Explain THAT._

“Picky, picky.” Rin splays hands across Haru’s chest, stretching them as wide as he can pinky to thumb like he’s measuring. He smiles as he looks down, not making eye contact, almost shy. “So, former virgin, whatd’ya wanna do now? We have all day, you know. I cleared it with your dad – I mean, with Sousuke.”

“Dear God. Don’t encourage him,” Haru insists, covering his face again. He hears Rin’s _huh-huh-huh._ “He likes that, you know. I think he gets off on it. Him being the ‘daddy’ and me a ‘kid.’ Never mind I’m actually older than the guy.”

Rin’s _choking_ with laughter now, and Haru discreetly peeks through his arms, just gazing at the sight of this man being truly happy.

He finally catches his breath, smirks down at Haru. “Well, no worries, mate. I’ll whip ‘im into shape for ya.”

“I almost feel sorry for him,” Haru says, smiling back. He bumps his hips up a few times, jostling Rin and getting a “…hey!” in protest. “I need to shower, Rin. You – you wanna come?”

Rin’s bitchfest is over instantly. “Uh, that’s one of the stupidest things you’ve ever said, Haru. And that’s saying a lot.” Haru gives him a shove and Rin goes down, giggling, Haru sliding out of him and missing the feeling instantly. He slips off the bed, pulls the condom off carefully and starts for the door, Rin calling brashly behind him, “I’ll be right there, numbnuts. Run the tub too, will ya?”

Haru doesn’t need to be asked.

*

Rin pads, nude, past the closed bathroom door, smiling at the roar of water into the tub. Haru and he, sharing a warm bath, just relaxing. Maybe ordering some takeout for lunch. Today, no one cooks. Today is all about decadence and celebration, after his many victories.

He heads to the kitchen and gets two tall glasses out of the cabinet, a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge. He’s pouring the second glass when he hears his phone’s text-notification, a _cha-ching!_ old-school cash-register sound. Because he’s money, naturally.

He finds it in his jacket pocket, hung haphazardly on the hooks by the door when they came in and he basically attacked Haru. Rin swipes it open.

**MakAttack:** _hi Rin – having a good time with Haru?_

He smirks down, thumb flying over the keyboard. _Oh, you could say that, Mako._

**Sent:** _well, we had a race at the pool and I got im a new outfit. HOLY FUCK WAIT TIL YOUSEE IT MAKO O.O_

Makoto’s reply pops up instantly.

**MakAttack:** _can’t wait <333 … anything else?_

This time Rin feels the heat of a blush as he writes. It takes him a minute. He’s always been a wordy texter.

**Sent:** _um, you could say that. Just got done fucking the shit out of him, he’s never topped b4 and he aced it! I think our boy has potential, honey ;DDD_

…and, nothing. Rin waits, staring down at his phone and slowly losing his grin. He takes a long pull off his lemonade, refills the glass – and still nothing. _He probably just had to use the bathroom,_ he thinks. _Not everything anyone does in the world is about YOU, you know._

Rin’s heading for the bathroom with a glass in each hand, figuring something came up and Makoto had to go suddenly, when his phone on the kitchen counter _cha-ching!_ s with two more notifications. Sighing, he turns around and swipes the screen again.

He blinks down.

**MakAttack:** _oh! That’s ironic. Sousuke and I are about to do something too. Great minds think alike and all that!_

**MakAttack:** _and let’s see who can give it to Haru better, Rin ;)_

***

…Heyyyy-oooo!

Thank you all for coming along with me on that epic avalanche of HaruRinness! I don’t actually believe in OTPs (multishipper here) but I fully understand them, and with Rin and Haru the FreeShip I fell for first, they have a special place in my heart. It was tricky writing for them as I’m sure I’m utterly OOC for Haru if not Rin too … but as “OOC” is another thing I don’t believe in, it’s nice not to worry about that ;D. (Thanks for riding that HaruFeels rollercoaster, too. I actually made myself cry while writing :/. Kid needs a mood-stabilizer, some quiet time and maybe a Deluxe Mackerel Platter from someplace that delivers.)

Giant props to the lovely artist [sexywhales](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sexywhales/pseuds/sexywhales) for donating the fabulous “make room for Jesus/does he like threesomes” joke at the start of the chap. I ADORE GOOD LINES :D

ANd a huge thanks to the amazing [TheGirlOnFandoms](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlOnFandoms/pseuds/TheGirlOnFandoms) who wished for the shopping scenario. Girl, you need a cowriting credit at this point O.o

Stay tuned for Mr. Kiss! Like this thing needs any more complication :/ ;)


	32. Bang-bang into the room

FANART FANART IT’S ALWAYS A GOOD DAY FOR FANART - !!! I am in love with the following:

[Irish_Cupcake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Irish_Cupcake/pseuds/Irish_Cupcake)’s [melancholy yet adorable grade-school Haru-chan](http://maybeillride-changemylife.tumblr.com/post/118180857064/i-adore-this-solemn-sorta-sad-kidharu-whose), inspired by Nagisa’s Ch. 30 reminiscence that in school, “Haru-chan outprettied all the girls.” Good old Nagisa ;)

[No0onat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/No0onat/pseuds/No0onat)’s [totally magical Rin and Haru](http://maybeillride-changemylife.tumblr.com/post/117917736659/no0onatsweet-wiiiill-it-should-have-been-for-the), drawn to celebrate Ch. 31 and Sakurathon too (those cherry blossoms - !!!)

[sexywhales](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sexywhales/pseuds/sexywhales)’ [way, way too sexy Rin](http://maybeillride-changemylife.tumblr.com/post/117589825474/sexythewalkingcatfish-foreversaba) in the changing room from Ch. 31, who IS Rin. Rin’s hair, Rin’s bod, Rin’s FACE. Uncanny <3

Thank you, you lovely, talented souls :DDD

***

“Oh. My. God. You gotta see this text I just got from Sousuke,” Rin is half-yelling like he’s on the other end of the pool and not, actually, right the fuck across the coffeeshop table from him. Haru arranges his bitch-face with care (hey, Rin called it, he’s gonna get it) and keeps methodically peeling his croissant apart.

“What. He sexting you now? Is it a dick pic using the panoramic feature?”

Rin spits a fine shower of coffee between them and Haru’s glad his breakfast somehow has escaped harm. He sits crosslegged in the comfy chair and secretly basks in the sight and sound of the beautiful pain-in-the-ass – _HIS_ beautiful pain-in-the-ass (?) – the hand holding his phone drooping sadly to the tabletop, his other hand splaying across his face as he shakes with laughter.

Rin is a _sight,_ and an experience, in any capacity – in Haru’s drawing of Sou’s “dream guy,” in that stupid video with Makoto, telling that asshole at the studio to take his job and choke on it. Leaning close to do Haru’s makeup later that night, never stopping his excited chatter about Haru’s amazing eyebrows and holy _shit_ he MUST pluck them, right? and skin-tone and bone structure and basically giving Haru the full department store makeup counter treatment he never knew he needed.

...riding him yesterday, so – _sure_ in what he wanted to take from Haru, when Haru was floating in space with no clue what he was offering.

But with all that competition, he thinks the absolute best of them all has to be _happy Rin:_ this radiance that’s pushing out of him, that’s infecting every little gesture and head-tilt and eyebrow-quirk and excited comment and these goddamn _giggles –_!! These giggles, that make him sound about 12 years old, that have his shoulders shaking and one foot shooting out to kick Haru’s knee. He’s been like this all morning – all last night – since their shared bath, actually, which was as awesome as Haru had always envisioned, even if it was a close fit with two in Rin’s tub. He didn’t even miss the usual meditative thing he got out of it, or mind Rin’s insistent way-too-tight bearhug as he leaned back against Rin’s chest. Rin’s boner actually let him make some carefully-selected jabs at Rin’s expense about the sad experience of having a teen boy libido, which got him a fast reply telling him where he could stick said libido, and subsequently Rin taking him with almost-scary enthusiasm on his knees in the water.

Haru’d never had tub-sex. He thought he could get used to the concept pretty well.

That’s a funny thing, too. The anxiety he was drowning in after the Skype call, the “three cups of coffee too much” feeling? Almost uncannily … channeled. Like just being with Rin was soothing but at the same time … energizing? Which makes NO sense.

Rin’s done laughing – has been done for some unknown time, taking a sip and just squinting over the rim of the mug at Haru.

“Sorry,” Haru finally relents. “So what words of wisdom did Mr. Yamazaki have today?”

Rin puts his mug down with a thump and smacks Haru’s shoulder. “Oh, what DIDN’T he? Okay. _Rin. Sousuke._ Ha! Do you feel the warmth? I’m feeling the warmth. Lawd, get me a fan for all that warmth!” Rin frantically fans his face and a little laugh slips past Haru’s defenses. Rin clutches Haru’s wrist and reads on. He has a surprisingly good Sousuke-voice, which makes it about a hundred times funnier.

“ _Hope you boys had ‘fun’ on your little ‘date’ yesterday.”_ Rin’s air-quoting. “Can you believe that? So now apparently we’re ‘boys’ and he’s a big poopy pompous ass. Or something. Does that sound pompous to you?”

It’s Haru’s turn to smack Rin’s shoulder. “You’re going at this all wrong, Rin. He only has two settings: ‘pompous’ and ‘asleep’.” Rin’s giggling again and Haru pauses in thought. “He may sleep pompously, too. I’m not sure. I’m usually asleep too.”

“Ahhh, you have him so whipped, though, you know?” Rin’s eyes are bright. “God, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a guy so totally whipped. Shit, and _I’ve_ done _Sex Dungeon 1_ through _5_!”

Haru stares intently down at his eviscerated breakfast and just keeps on staring. Seems like the safest course of action. When he screws up his courage enough to sneak a glance, Rin has his chin in a hand and is just … watching him. Like some mute guy with zero facial expression is riveting mealtime entertainment, enough to get him smiling, even.

“Oh would you just go on,” Haru finally snaps. He pauses. “And it’s totally unethical but I wanna see at least one of those fucking horrible _Sex Dungeon_ movies sometime.”

Rin blinks. “Yes, dear. I think that can be arranged. So. After dissing us Mr. Pompous-Ass gets all hypocritical, check this – _While you were off skipping around and screwing him blind, there was real WORK that wasn’t getting done. I need you to get him back here ASAP. And I’m deadly serious._ Can you believe that shit?? Like you’re a late library book and he’s gonna start fining me?”

“You didn’t screw me blind,” Haru says thoughtfully. “I’m pretty sure I was paying attention and I don’t remember ever losing vision. Did we do something wrong?”

“ _Haru,_ fuck,” Rin protests, but he’s simultaneously quasi-yelling at Haru and also pushing it through another round of helpless laughter, and Haru rocks forward thoughtlessly to grab his face. Grab it, tilt in like an old-movie heroine (… _Porn with the Wind??_ ) and kiss him in a surge of pure pleasure and affection and amusement and passion. Pure happiness to just be sitting with this dude in his favorite coffeeshop being a total gossipy bitch (at the expense of Sou, who he loves, but hey – collateral damage).

To not be sitting ALONE.

He pulls off Rin with a _smack!_ loud enough to get the college-kid barista glancing over at them. Rin’s look of surprise is so priceless, he wishes he were one of those pretentious assholes taking pictures of everything with his iPhone to slap on Instagram … ‘cause this is a look worth saving.

“Haru, you are gonna kill me,” he says, low this time.

“I can stop doing that,” Haru says seriously, and Rin waves a hand.

“No, no, no – you stop, I fucking kill _you_. In your sleep. Capisce?” He’s suddenly getting up and loudly dragging his chair around the table – it isn’t light, so it’s not an easy job – to be side-by-side with Haru and get an arm around his shoulders. “Okay. Your boyfriend isn’t done yet if you can believe that. And it’s your turn to get ripped.” He showily clears his throat and Haru beats down the urge to snatch Rin’s phone away and read it himself, laying his head on Rin’s shoulder instead. Where it’s so weirdly comfortable. “So he threatens me and then – _I WOULD be saying all this to Haru but my little partner seems to have his phone off. Never has it on, actually. Drives me fucking insane. if you could turn it on that would be great. I don’t know if he’s intentionally shutting me out or what. S._ ”

“Lucky you, Rin. He’s going to you for advice now! You should be flattered,” Haru says. It’s almost weird how NOT-mad he is; Sousuke apparently thinks of him as his teenage son (???) and has some co-parent thing going on with Rin (???) and the abso-fucking-lute last thing he needs is more parents, given the stellar job his have done. But he just wants to laugh, and laugh.

“That shit doesn’t piss you off? Him acting like your damn dad?” Rin smirks. “You ARE shutting him out, aren’t you?”

Haru shrugs against him. “Nah. I’m shutting everyone out. It’s kinda my thing.”

Rin shoves Haru off his chair.

*

Haru insists they stop at his place so he can grab a few essentials, just STUFF he’s been slowly going insane without, and Rin seems almost thrilled to oblige him.

“God, I've been wanting to see your apartment again!” he enthuses, leaning against the wall next to Haru as he unlocks his door. “I was in-and-out so fast last time, IF ya know what I mean. Wait, wait – don’t remind me. It’s wallpapered with boy-band posters. Amiright?”

Haru ignores him and lets himself in. He assumes Rin’s following though he doesn’t bother to look or hold the door or anything that could be construed as hospitable, heading straight for his bureau as Rin stands in the middle of the room, turning in a circle and taking it in.

“…Haru! I love it.”

“’Cozy,’ right?” Haru puts a fresh pair of jammers in his messenger bag. “That’s what the ad said. Best example of the magic of marketing I’ve ever seen.”

Rin is looking at each of his posters – _Psycho,_ Los Straightjackets, _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Invisible Man –_ with this deep, ponderous seriousness, like he’s at the National Museum. He even has your classic pretentious-twit finger to his chin, the slight nod, the distant stoic look. He throws a polka-dotted pair of boxers at his head.

“Whoa! You own _underwear!_ Holy shit!” Rin exclaims, after pulling them off and examining them. He gasps. “And – and they’re so _cute!_ You liar, Nanase.” He ambles over, drapes himself heavily on Haru’s back. His breath tickles Haru’s ear. “You’re totally normal under all those layers of weirdo.”

“Your standards scare me,” Haru says mildly, shaking him off. Rin’s apparently unoffended and heads into the bathroom. His voice bounces hollowly off the tiles.

“Haru!! Look at this _tub!!_ You could take a bath with the whole Olympic swimming team in here!”

Haru snickers. “Um, maybe, as long as it’s Team Japan and not, like, Norway or something,” he calls back, voice temporarily muffled as he peels off the well-used borrowed tee, dropping it to the floor with his skinny jeans (and shedding his jammers on second thought). He wriggles into the skintight navy-blue catsuit that’s one of his favorite things in the universe; it’s so calming, this feeling of being hugged from every direction at once. Like wearing jammers all over. Fabulous.

He’s sitting by the front door, zipping up the blue go-go boots that are another of his favorite things, when Rin’s footsteps shuffle back in the room and stop abruptly. Haru looks up at him.

“Haru. God. You … you look like a crayon,” he finally says with a horrified look on his face, that still manages to have this overlay of _interest._

“It’s a _catsuit,_ Rin. I thought you were supposed to be some fashion authority. Apparently not.”

Rin makes a choked sound. “I KNOW it’s a catsuit, you mental case, I’m just saying maybe you shouldn’t – _no,_ Haru, do NOT wear that with a blue hoodie,” he pleads as Haru shrugs into said hoodie, this awesome big turquoise thing that is actually Sou’s and that he liberated. Guy has too many clothes, Haru’s just helping him out. He shrugs noncommittally at Rin as he puts the hood up.

“Gah!! Now you look like a condom!”

“Success,” Haru declares, and grabs Rin’s elbow to lead him out.

*

Rin is suspiciously cagey at the penthouse door, stalling getting his key out, and Haru pokes him in the side. “What’s your problem –” he starts but to his surprise, Rin turns and has a hand over his mouth like they’re in a bad high-school musical. “Whf th fuff.”

Rin jerks his head at the door. “Shhh. Hear anything … suspicious?” Haru glares over Rin’s hand so he sighs and tries again. “ _Amorous?_ ”

Haru shuts up, then, and listens intently; and, oh, yes, now he gets it – two mens’ voices, one low one high, mingling in such unbridled, unfettered, _pick your damn cliché_ passion. In pretty-much perfect synchronization, actually, approaching the edge by the sound of it. And Haru gets the most surreal feeling – should he feel jealous about this, at all? Is he _supposed_ to? Who should he even be jealous _of_ , if yes? Because he’s not getting the slightest pull of that feeling – in fact, the sounds divorced from any visual are tantalizing, like they’re _taunting_ him and Rin with what they can’t see. Daring them.

He flicks his eyes from the door back to Rin – and apparently he’s on the same wavelength, messy desire spread over his face, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in a way that should look dumb but on Rin is cute. “I _knew_ it. I knew they were gonna get up to something as soon as we were out the door!” Rin gets a hold of the handle. “Come on – let’s peep.”

Haru reaches down and squeezes Rin’s hip, getting him to jump a little. “…just like Rob Miller. Life imitating art, huh, _baby?_ ”

“You call your trash _art??_ ” Rin comes back, and Haru wishes they could laugh but _peeping,_ and Rin somehow fits the key in the lock and eases the door open with such silence, such subtlety, James Bond would beg for a lesson. He stabs two forked fingers at his eyes then into the foyer, and oh, Haru wishes he could go back to the elevator to have a giggle-fit in peace. But there’s no time, Rin grabbing his elbow in exasperation to creep in when he doesn’t immediately get the hint.

…and they hurry in, Haru stumbling at Rin’s turbo-pace, homing in on the two voices as they climb, crescendo – and Rin and Haru come to an abrupt stop in the living room, plain as day, Rin apparently having no memory that this was supposed to be a stealth mission. They’re met with a surprisingly chaste sight for all the moaning, but Haru thinks it’s no less hot for that: Sou, snugged tightly against the side of the island, Makoto pinning him securely. Both leaning lightly against one of the other’s broad shoulders, their heads bowed in to each other, hair messy like they’ve spent the morning just hanging out in the apartment, which matches their slouchy sweats (borrowed from Sou, Haru knows immediately, and fitting Mako as well as the suit did the night they went out dancing).

They’ve … been getting each other off, standing there in the kitchen like Makoto got diverted on the way to get milk for his coffee or something. Just jammed up against the island, good thing too given the gusty breaths that they’re trying to get under control. From their angle, Haru can’t actually “see” anything and guesses Rin can’t either. But it couldn’t matter less. The two of their guys together … _god, they’re like a couple of fucking thoroughbreds nudging and nipping each other after a race,_ Haru thinks, his artist’s sense switching on without his participation or consent.

“Oi!” Rin says, and Sou’s head pops up so fast he cracks foreheads with Makoto, and they reluctantly disengage from each other, groaning, Makoto _wholeheartedly apologizing._ Haru takes the opportunity to inspect the rest of them and is actually more impressed than disappointed to find them totally decent and tucked away. _Now THAT is an efficient quickie._ He makes a mental note.

Their faces freeze somewhere between confusion (Makoto) and amused horror (Sou) when they look over and notice Haru in his catsuit and hoodie. And boots. Because to be fair, Rin gave him no opportunity to take them off in their mad rush in.

“…Haru! You – you look like a crayon,” Makoto finally says, hand lingering on Sou’s hip. Haru finds that almost as hot as all the rest of it.

Rin meanwhile is almost asthmatic with laughter hanging off of Haru’s shoulder, like a goddamn high-school kid. Haru is simultaneously irritated and endeared – it shoots him instantly to some imaginary high-school self that never was, someone who had a best friend in his grade, in his _class,_ who would sit next to him in the back of the room, commiserate over the crappy teachers, snicker as he passed Haru dumb notes. He never had that. It feels … _so_ good to see what he was missing, over ten years too late.

“Oh my GOD, Mako! That is EXACTLY what I told him! Do we have a freaky mind-meld or what??”

Makoto’s look of confusion has done the funniest thing, shifting subtly into this almost nostalgia, with the softest smile. “I like crayons,” he says to Haru, and Haru snorts and turns away, secretly satisfied that once again, _Makoto_ understands him, at least.

“Okay, okay, you couple of mood-wreckers,” Sou says irritably, and Haru watches his far hand discreetly slide over, fold over Makoto’s on his hip. Rin admirably takes the torch.

“Yeah! So you and Sousuke have been having fun, Mako. I’m very happy to see that,” he says sincerely. “And yeah. I see you’re really ready to do some _work,_ Sousuke. God, it’s lucky we hurried here so fast! Wouldn’t want you to miss a single brilliant thought together!”

“For your fucking infor _mation_ , my little friend, we weren’t fucking around. We were doing research for the book,” Sou growls at Rin, and they – and Makoto – just blink at him.

“You were?” Haru finally asks.

“…we were?” Makoto echoes.

Sou rolls his eyes and gently pushes the big, confused man away, heads for the coffeemaker. “Oh … no,” Rin says worriedly. “Please, _please_ don’t say this turns into one of those creepy meta things where the author sticks themselves into the story. _Please._ ”

Haru guides the horrified redhead to the island and onto a stool and is surprised at his own care. He takes the one next to Rin, and Makoto leans deeply on his elbows across to them, like the world’s hottest bartender, eyes bright. “No, actually,” Haru explains. “Sou and I have roleplayed the book a lot together. So this would be nothing new. With the exception of _the actual Michael Tanglewood_ in the house, that is.” He ducks a look up at Makoto, an almost-helpless I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening-even-now look. Makoto just rests his chin in a palm and smiles.

Sou slides mugs of black coffee to Rin and him, fast down the island, like they’re in an Old-West tavern, and Haru huffs a chain of giggles into one palm. Sou would really enjoy that. Especially the ass-kickings.

Then he’s sliding in close behind Haru, pulling in as Haru sits on the stool, and wrapping his arms lightly around his shoulders; Haru stills, thoughts dashing across his mind. _Is he sending a signal of where I “belong”? Feeling apologetic or guilty about being with Mako?_ Haru blinks tiredly, leans his head back to rest against the familiar planes of Sou’s chest. _…just saying hi?_

Haru’s head vibrates suddenly with the low timbre of Sou’s voice. “Well, you’ll have to tell me how your _date_ was. Let me know what Rin does when he wants to show a guy a good time. I’m thinking the zoo may have been involved.”

“I dunno, Sousuke,” Makoto warns, pulling up to stand tall again. “The zoo is surprisingly hot. You catch some animals being intimate, well. It’s sexy.” He shrugs. “I actually can’t handle it when that happens. I get really, mmm, embarrassed for them, like, I wish they had more privacy. So I can never watch.”

Sou is braying laughter so loud it tickles Haru’s head and Rin is nodding furiously. “Totally true. He fucking makes me tell him when it’s safe to look again.” Rin balls up a napkin and throws it at Makoto’s head. It bounces harmlessly off his chin; he doesn’t even flinch. “Ya know, there’s such a thing as being TOO nice, Mako.”

“I know,” Makoto says, so mournfully it crosses a mysterious line into funny, and they lose it, Rin and Haru folding over into the island, Sou collapsing over them both, shaking as they work through their laughter. Sou’s pulling Haru up then by a gentle hand on his chest, Rin coming along, and as they make it back to vertical they’re met with Makoto, blinking solemnly at them all.

“…fuckers,” he says.

*

Haru feels so, so _good_ for the first time in … forever. The most like _himself._ The rhythmic shake of the train is way more soothing and less irritating than usual, the evening crowd more tolerable, even sorta entertaining. There’s a little boy and girl – brother and sister, about ten and eight – playing a GameBoy across the car, and their energy together, as the boy cheers the girl on and the girl concentrates fiercely, reminds Haru of Rin and Gou. This is exactly what they were like then, two little firecrackers who were each other’s biggest fans, he just knows it. It makes him sad for the second time today, for something he could never have, the feeling of a sister or brother to brush his teeth with, do homework with, swap stories about dreams they’d had the night before. The feeling dissolves quickly, ending almost as soon as it started – no point being sad, when there’s nothing to be done about the past.

But when the sadness leaves a sort of quiet happiness takes its place. Rin and Gou have each other, and that is a wonderful thing.

“Hey, mister! Are you supposed to be some superhero?” the boy yells excitedly across to him, grinning; his sister darts a look up from the game and shouts “Yeah!” bouncing on her seat. The mortified woman who must be their mom says two names in scary tones then looks up at him with … concern.

Haru gives the kids his most-harmless smile. “Actually, you’re really good. I’m AquaMan. But my uniform is in the wash so I’m wearing this instead today.”

The kids look at each other like they’re making confirmation and then they’re up, rushing him and throwing themselves on either side of him in worshippy hugs. “Cooool!” the girl is saying as she gazes up without a shred of irony on her face. “Oh wow AquaMan, you’re _Japanese??_ ” the boy is gasping at the same time, like he’s learning a vital life truth. Haru keeps smiling benignly down as the mom hauls herself up to drag them back.

“Of course I am,” he says kindly to the boy. “Country surrounded by water, where _else_ could AquaMan be from?”

“Please stop telling lies to my children,” the woman is saying angrily, using a hand on each kid’s shoulder to somehow stay upright as the train shakes into Haru’s stop. He blinks up at her. “It’s a sin to take advantage of vulnerable minds like that for your own benefit.” The train grinds to a halt and she pulls them away like Haru’s a convicted child molester.

“You have a couple of lovely kids, ma’am,” he tells her sincerely, the sister and brother continuing to look at him with open adoration as he stands. “You did a good job with them. Keep it up.”

He turns and hurries off before the doors whisk shut and trap him there, hearing “…aww MOM, why did you chase AquaMan away?? He was really nice and cute!!” behind him and smiling.

Haru ambles down the sidewalk on the way to his place, the wireless stores screaming light over him as he passes, food stalls tempting him even though Rin – _Rin –_ cooked them all a fabulous late dinner, something with tilapia and grapefruit that puckered his mouth in just the right way. Apparently Makoto was the only one of them who couldn’t cook, something he confessed sheepishly as they sat out on Sou’s balcony, drinking cold beer with Rin’s meal and lazily enjoying Tokyo spread beneath them.

“…you have – _other_ talents,” Sou told him, getting a general nod of agreement around the round table.

They’d had a wonderful day – like he and Sou were fully back on track, finding their place where they left off and easing back in with shocking smoothness. Part of that was the work Haru had done daydreaming and scheming ahead while they’d been separated that long weekend. Part of it was the almost-ravenous excitement with which Sou consumed what he’d done, reading it on Haru’s old laptop as they sat side-by-side at the dining room table. Sou’s excitement – and then the way he just took over, dove in, snagging the laptop and attacking the keyboard and mouse to transform Haru’s way-beyond-stream-into-river-of-consciousness notes into a coherent whole, a _flow,_ a plot that actually made sense. Made sense, and more, had the heart-pounding, grim power of an opera, with the inevitability of a building plot you want to turn away from while compulsively hunching over the screen to get more.

Oh. And a plot twist. One … flaming HELL of a plot twist.

Makoto and Rin started the day hanging around the apartment, Rin shooting quips their way whenever anything mildly risqué would drift up from their workspace; but when they started to buckle down and get really swept into the work, Haru dimly registered a big warm hand on his shoulder ( _Makoto_ ), someone saying something about being back later, someone else responding, and the gentle snick of the door.

Then … then, much later, the well-earned feeling of satisfaction as they relaxed on the balcony, laughing and getting serious in this easy conversational dance, the comfy deck chairs a pleasure after hours of neglecting his body as they wrote.

And the funny affection when they all said goodbye to him – he insisted they didn’t have to walk him down to the front door (Rin and Makoto staying in the penthouse tonight) so they overcompensated by sending him through a sort of sexual receiving line… Rin doing an obnoxious ass-grab and muttering “…later,” in his ear; Makoto folding him briefly into his big, warm chest; Sou smiling and kissing his forehead, saying “Thank you,” as he pulled away.

He passes the conbini on his corner and has no idea where the blocks went. _Good thing no one tried to jump me for my bag,_ he smirks to himself. _Not that it would do ‘em any good. Jammers and first-draft porn – now THAT’S a good haul._

…and then, bliss, _bliss._ Home, he can relax, he can just float alone, let the percolating shocks of the day fade to a pleasant buzz, take a _bath_. _Alone._ He closes his door gently behind him, shuffles to his bed and dumps the messenger bag. Dumps himself down next with a long sigh, puts his legs up in a messy candle pose and pulls his boots off, throws them in the general direction of the door.

He stares up at the stars on his ceiling, softly glowing down in the darkness of his room. Takes a deep, long breath. And another.

Then he dips a hand in his bag and hauls out his laptop, shifting up to nestle in against his riot of pillows and pull the chain on his bedside lamp. The cool light of the fluorescent is comforting, as he opens the lid and turns his machine back on.

– and Haru’s surprised at the insistently-flashing Skype notification on his desktop. _What the fuck – this wasn’t on when I left Sou’s…_

He opens the chat window, frowning, doing a quick time-zone calculation. It’s about 8:00 in the morning in New York. Is Kisumi really so eager to process he’d be willing to sacrifice his precious beauty sleep to talk…?

And apparently Kisumi’s damn-near DYING to talk, hammering him with back-to-back texts.

 **kiss-me-sugar-me:** hey BABY! You around? Ahhh I’d love to talk if you are, please…????

 **kiss-me-sugar-me:** yo yo yo yo Harukins yo *poke-poke* yo get your dick outta Whoever’s ass, k??? TALK TO MEEEEEEEEE

 **kiss-me-sugar-me:** CMON HARU I KNOW YOU’RE ONLINE I CAN FEEL IT

Haru’s smirking down – involuntarily – as he fills the chat-box, the little dot next to Kisumi glowing green, waiting for him.

 **tidalpool-deep:** ~~~(¬＿¬ )~~~ (surprise, motherfucker)

Kisumi’s box pops up almost instantly, like he didn’t need any time to move his damn fingers at all. Haru scoffs. _Kids._

 **kiss-me-sugar-me:** ahahah Haru Haru Haru oh I’m so happy youre here!! Ah~ *dies happy*

Haru attacks his keys, which make a gentle _snick-snick_ in the silent room, a funny contrast to the jumble-swirl of thoughts in his head.

 **tidalpool-deep:** ah, the melodrama of youth, I love it. so…. Do you actually have a little bit to talk? I’m really glad you’re around, it’s funny – I think we’ve been overdue to sorta process things since the other day…

…nothing. No box popping up comfortingly. Haru finds himself wishing the stupid program gave you little dots so you knew if someone was typing, instead of this … _void._

But he’s not gonna stalk the guy. He isn’t _Kisumi._ He sighs, puts the laptop to the side with more force than necessary, and pads barefoot to the kitchenette to start some tea –

When the buzzer shouts into the stillness of the room, startling a breathy scream out of him.

Haru slowly lowers the kettle back to the stove, immediate denial sweeping in to convince him it was nothing but a bizarre coincidence, Kisumi’s off to put a Pop-Tart in the toaster in New York, some jerk has the wrong apartment downstairs. In _no way_ does this mean _Kisumi_ is here. If he just stands completely still he’ll be left in peace by the cosmos –

And the buzzer grates again, loud, _insistent._ It’s so damn rare that _anyone_ rings his bell, he’d forgotten what it sounds like. He isn’t even sure how Makoto and Sou got in before – slipped in behind someone, maybe? Sou paid-off the superintendent??

He hurries to the door and thumbs the intercom, voice hesitant and unsure. “…yes?”

The reply is instant. “HARU!!” Kisumi shouts through the crappy speaker, practically blowing it out in his off-the-charts enthusiasm. Haru flinches back and loses the button, cutting him off. He numbly hits it again.

“–can you believe it, I’m here, Haru, I got an earlier plane, I couldn’t fucking wait!! I’m downstairs right now!” and Haru explodes in violent giggles, at the shock and absurdity and ridiculousness of Kisumi’s _Kisuminess_.

“Are you laughing at me?” comes crackling through the terrible audio and there isn’t a breath of anger to it and Haru _loves him_ even in his shock.

“…of – of course I’m laughing at you, you dolt,” he finally manages, resting his head on the wall just above the intercom. “Of course you’re downstairs, where the hell else would you be? And why are you blowing all this extra money just to get here a little early?” Haru’s stomach takes a sudden turn south. “And – and don’t you have a semester to finish?? Idiot!”

Kisumi’s voice drops an octave for effect. “Invite Count Dracula into your home and I will tell you all, mortal,” and Haru’s slightly-hysterically giggling again, and hitting the Door button. He hears a distant hum through Kisumi’s end.

“…it’s open, come on up, Count,” he manages, and Kisumi’s end goes dead.

…and he blinks, staring, in front of his own door.

Then there’s a gentle knock, high ( _for someone tall_ ), and Haru numbly turns the handle and pulls the door open _and there he is,_ there’s the man he knows so well, TOO well. He’s smiling in the door, big, so fucking big, Haru has to tip his head back to look at him. Waiting politely, travel-mussed with his chaotic pink (…pink!!) curls and wrinkled black hoodie, faded band tee Haru can’t immediately identify, battered old jeans. Travel-worn in his stance, the slight slouch, the weariness in the way he holds his big carry-on on one broad shoulder, like he’s all-too familiar with its weight by now.

Tired, in the squint to his lovely violet eyes, that are sweeping over Haru with the same almost rude attention he’s giving Kisumi.

Delighted, in the light lift to the corners of his lips, the tilt of his head, the sudden burst of _energy_ as he sweeps forward to Haru.

He’s dumping the carry-on with a heavy _clunk_ in Haru’s entryway and then Haru’s enclosed in big arms, practically sucked-in, tilted disorientingly to the side with his head naturally falling that way too. He gasps in a perfect damsel-in-distress tone. He may be playing along. He’s not quite sure.

“…I von – to suck – your blahd,” Kisumi intones, one hand holding Haru’s head still with his lips down in prime Dracula position on his neck. It tickles and gives Haru goosebumps – and other, less innocent sensory reactions – and he wriggles petulantly.

“Well, do it then, pussy! All talk, you vampires. I fucking _swear,_ ” he bitches, and he can’t keep a straight face in all of this, he just can’t. As much as he wants to.

Kisumi has his lips experimentally around Haru’s neck – his jugular, in fact, which is vaguely concerning – but pulls back to snicker into his collarbone. Then they’re rocking carefully up to vertical and Haru is surprised how disappointed he is.

They stand for a moment, Kisumi’s arms still folded around him, and the feeling is so – so very natural, Haru is flabbergasted. It may be the shortcut they’ve already taken, this intimacy Haru felt way back from the start when all they were to each other was reblog-buddies. Way before being tumblr penpals, chat buddies. Even weird friends-with-visual-benefits. Just – something about Kisumi’s … lack of judgment. His couldn’t-give-a-fuck spirit. His acceptance of whatever Haru threw at him. Instant safety. Instant trust.

Haru finds himself holding Kisumi’s black hoodie in two little fists, as they sorta float together in this weird yet comfortable silence. _Megadeth,_ the shirt underneath says, one of the awesome old ‘80s ones with the horrible skeleton art that doubtless gave parents aneurysms all over America. And Japan.

He keeps his eyes safely down on the cheerfully-nasty skeleton, stretched teasingly over Kisumi’s chest. “Megadeth, eh?” he asks finally, and feels Kisumi’s big hands travel slowly down from his shoulders to his low back, pull him carefully closer. “Damn, Kiss. I knew you had broad tastes. But Megadeth?? Whoa.”

“Oh my God, Haru. ‘Kiss’? You’re gonna call me ‘Kiss’?? Oh, okay. Dead.” And the grin in his voice is too enticing to keep Haru looking away a second longer, and he finally looks up, and Kisumi this close is – well.

Is not for real. _CAN’T_ be for real. Nobody fires off this much … _whatever_ Kisumi is putting out, coming down to him not in waves but in a big, broad beam, existing nowhere outside sci-fi or Haru’s fantasies.

“So what if I call you Kiss? You got a problem with that? Seems fitting,” Haru justifies, and Kisumi is just squinting down at him, silently, and Haru wonders how he got drafted to do all the talking. And somehow doesn’t care.

“…fitting, huh? Well let’s see about that,” Kisumi finally says, ducking down ( _this height thing … how am I ending up with all these tall guys…?_ ). With his first move into Haru’s lips, he gets the sudden impression _this is a guy who does this. A LOT._ Just – something about the feeling Kisumi isn’t hesitating, doesn’t have to pause to wonder what comes next. His confidence. Yet, at the same time Haru feels the tickle of energy where their faces meet, the tiny tremble of his long fingers as he lays one hand against Haru’s cheek. Like … he knows what he’s doing, he has the muscle memory; but not with Haru.

Like doing this with Haru is a whole other thing entirely.

Haru’s smoothed his hands up Kisumi’s hoodie, setting his thumbs behind Kisumi’s ears, just enjoying the soft _flow_ between them, the gentleness of it, the tenderness. The care. He envisions a line, drawing a long spiral around them, a sorta dancing and sparkling thing that takes another trip around with each time they change direction, start again. His imaginary spiral drops into a circle around their feet as they finally stop, pull away at the same time. Smile at each other.

“…well? How am I?” Kisumi asks, cockily.

“Hmmm. Yeah, we’ll see. Ask me again at the end of your trip, _maybe_ I can call you Kiss,” Haru says, and Kisumi bends down, quickly _picks him up_ like that fucking damsel in distress Haru accidentally played at, walks him way-too easily to the bed.

Dumps him down – and Haru’s nerves are buzzing, his vision in the room’s low light is hyper-attuned to _Kisumi Kisumi Kisumi,_ and he’s instantly reaching up, like a baby in a crib demanding a toy …

But Kisumi doesn’t fall over him, doesn’t push him down; he just slides onto the bed, sitting cross-legged across from Haru, almost shy. And Haru’s filled with a shot of confusion, like acid in his veins.

“…Kisumi?” he asks, slowly, hating that he has to ask, hating looking so fucking needy. So _weak._ When his feelings aren’t reciprocated…?

Kisumi reaches out, very deliberately grabs Haru’s hands between them. He’s unexpectedly serious, still, voice low. _Nervous._ “Haru, you – you have no idea how good it is to be here with you. Worth every penny of that change-ticket fee,” and he breaks character for a second with his wide grin. Haru doesn’t reciprocate.

“But what is it??” Haru hates that he’s asking.

“We have a chance to be together for a week, to really spend time together. I – I don’t give a shit about seeing any of the sights, I just want you to take me around. Show me your usual places you hang out, where you like to go. ‘A week in the life of Haru,’” he grins again, like he’s delighted at his own idea. Haru is considerably less-so.

“Kisumi. Why the fuck do I have to ‘date’ you? I _know_ you! I know you so well. Don’t – don’t you want to sleep with me…?” He pulls his hands away from Kisumi, his words all wrong, hanging cheap and tacky in the air after his friend’s adorable – _old-fashioned –_ proposal. _He’d_ been thinking all wrong, his order of operations all wrong…?

But when Rin wants him, when Makoto wants him? When _Sou_ wants him? Is _that_ wrong?

…would Kisumi feel so hesitant about being with them?

Kisumi’s grin is a shy smile now, and he turns, gets off the bed and ambles over to his carry-on. As he crouches – folding with surprising easiness given what a big galoot he is ( _…athlete_ ), Haru can only watch him dumbly, still trying to reconcile the familiar walls of his tiny place with this figure, who’s both known and _un_ known.

Then Kisumi’s coming back, folding comfortably back onto the bed. It’s hard to tell in the dimness of the room, but Haru thinks he may be … blushing? Just the slightest bit? He has a blue plastic bag in his hands, puts it in Haru’s. Haru stares a question at him.

“It’s nothing. Just a couple little gifts for you. God, the thought of you opening these kept me sane during that plane ride - !!”

Haru gives him a crooked, narrow look – _I have nothing for YOU, asshole_ – and Kisumi just watches, hands holding his crossed knees like he’s trying to contain his excitement. He slips a hand inside and first pulls out a little foil bag, fancy, a cartoon of a woman walking a poodle on the front. It smells … delicious.

“Almond tea!” Kisumi says, taking it and unfolding the top so Haru can stick his nose in for a long sniff. _Mmm … cherries, but not too sweet._ “You’re always drinking tea on our calls, and I had it at this fancy tea-shop in Brooklyn, and thought ‘this MUST be Haru’s.’”

Haru smirks at the image of the giant dude being all urbane and discussing the merits of oolongs versus greens. “Do you even _like_ tea?”

“Hey! I’m learning! It’s a process!” he says seriously, and Haru snorts, unable to avoid putting his face back in the bag for another whiff. Kisumi grins at his obvious approval.

“…we’ll have some later,” Haru promises, closing it safely and reaching back in the bag. His fingers close around a CD case and he pulls it out –

To see Shonen Knife gazing up at him, his three lovely heroes looking _tough,_ leaning against the side of a nasty brick wall in black and white. Wearing matching leather jackets. Like they won’t take shit from _anyone._

“What is this??” he breathes, too caught up to translate the English. Kisumi’s so excited he’s shifting around, sitting next to Haru instead.

“Oh my _God,_ Haru, oh you wouldn’t believe it. I was at this awesome old CD place just browsing, and they have the best concert bootlegs, right? And here’s this show the Knife did in Queens, where they played nothing but Ramones songs. Just solid Ramones songs for an hour. Fucking _epic._ ” He’s holding the CD case with Haru like they’re kids in a choir sharing music. “Don’t ask how much I paid. But it was all worth it.”

“Fifty dollars,” Haru reads on the price tag, and Kisumi yelps, fucking _yelps,_ yanks it out of Haru’s hands and bends over to chip the sticker off before he gives it back.

“You didn’t see that,” he tells Haru grimly, and Haru’s shaking his head.

“You spent fifty dollars on _me??_ Goddamn, _Kiss,_ ” he says, half-awed and half-uncomfortable, so-wishing he hadanything to reciprocate. He’s filled with the urge to stretch up, kiss him … and carefully pushes it away.

Kisumi positively fucking beams. Like someone just told him he aced every class this semester. “So I earned Kiss after all. Life – is – good.” He rustles the little bag irritatingly. “One more! C’mon, Haru.”

And Haru shakes out the last thing, a twist of blue tissue paper, and unravels it … to find a necklace, a delicate, beautiful treasure, a stylized dolphin form cut from abalone, leaping like it’s breaching. The shell is perfectly-chosen, pale gray to fit his favorite animal, but with that hypnotic shine. Haru immediately finds the catch on the strong silver chain, reaches back to fasten it. He turns to Kisumi.

“Well? How does it look?”

Kisumi pauses, like he’s deciding whether to do something, and reaches forward slowly. “Can I…?” he asks, and pushes the hoodie off Haru’s shoulders when he doesn’t protest. He’s pulling the zipper down the front of his catsuit next, Haru following his careful touch as he brings it down, between his pectorals. Stops, for a moment, eyes moving over what he sees; then Kisumi reaches up, moves the dolphin necklace into the V he’s created, onto his skin, where it rests on his breastbone.

“…ah, Haru,” he says, finally. His voice is small.

Haru has no heart left to tease, even for fun. He just moves forward, slowly, closes his arms around Kisumi’s wide shoulders in thanks. “It’s just beautiful, Kisumi. It’s perfect.”

“Mmmm,” is all Kisumi says, and Haru likes it, like he’s speaking Haru now, and he tilts his head in to rest on the b-baller’s broad shoulder. It smells like sweat, musky, with the ghost of deodorant that’s lost the good fight … though Haru finds he likes Kisumi’s scent.

“You – you must be just exhausted,” he says into Kisumi’s neck.

“Eh, I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he says offhandedly, and Haru gives his neck a little nip. Some payback for his unfulfilled Dracula tease. And Kisumi rolls them over each other on the bed, ending up on top of Haru and grinning down in a way Haru’s fine labelling “devilish.” _Fucking. Tease._

Haru’s moving on, reasonably. “I have no idea what your plans were, if you actually have a hotel, but they’re a fucking fortune here. You’d hardly be able to eat.”

“So, you’re saying…?” Kisumi has added pinning his wrists to the devilish grin. Haru would mind if he wasn’t so into that sort of thing.

“…I’m _SAYING_ that you are welcome to stay here, with me. Share my palatial estate. Of course,” he puts on the most theatrical sad-face he can manage, not being Rin, “I just have this _one_ bed. We’ll be forced to share. And now I know how you _feel_ about that.” He decides to press his luck, sweeps a leg out and trails his pointed toe up the back of Kisumi’s long leg.

Gets a completely-immature thrill at the … _unfocused_ look on his face.

“…Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?” Kisumi finally quotes, and Haru _LOVES_ it, and stutters his laugh up into his face. His _pretty_ face, which swiftly descends and he’s kissing Haru again, true to his ridiculous name and nickname, but this kiss is NOTHING like the soft exploration at the door. This is … a test, Haru decides dimly, getting shoved insistently into his comforter and feeling like he’s at the dentist, if going to the dentist was fucking AWESOME. Kisumi’s tongue, sweeping along his teeth, mapping his own tongue, the dimensions of his mouth. And Haru has no clue how to pass this test, so he just renews his leg’s position on Kisumi’s upper leg, ass, _pulls_ them together insistently even as he strains up against the playful bonds the big guy has him in.

Finally Kisumi lifts off him with a pop. Haru tries and mostly succeeds at staying quiet, keeping his breathing under wraps, and enjoys that Kisumi isn’t doing well at all on either of those. After a minute or so Kisumi finally has himself under control, pulling Haru’s arms over his head and holding them there instead. Haru smirks up.

“I’d be honored to stay here,” Kisumi says, unnecessarily. He leans down, pulling a Rin and resting their foreheads together. All Haru can see is purple, and all he feels is … warmth. Everywhere, from where Kisumi holds his hands to where their foreheads touch to the long connection of their bodies. It feels so very good.

“…and we have to go hang out at Sousuke’s place. You have _got_ to introduce me to your guys!”

…and Haru goes cold.

***

Haruuuuu … Well, thank you to anyone here who’s been so kindly waiting for KissyBaby to show his troublemaking face – the waiting is at an end! Expect an avalanche of Kisumi action coming up, with shared tubs and dates and mingling and troublemaking. I actually really like the idea that I tried to get across here – that Haru, as the total newbie who now has been trained to think relationships = sex, would wanna dive right in, while Kisumi, the romantic with tons of experience (?), would have this ideal vision of his Tokyo getaway, involving old-fashioned “wooing” his Haru.

(Note his old-fashioned wooing may or may not involve diving right into getting it on with the other dudes. Which will – uh … yeah.)

Haru’s outfit this chap – [blue catsuit](http://emmapeel.com/Emma_Peel_Catsuit-4.jpg), Sousuke’s canonical turquoise hoodie (heh), and blue gogo boots – was utterly inspired by a much less-loopy but still all-blue outfit proudly worn by the lovely [Daxii](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Daxii/pseuds/Daxii). Thank you for the inspiration, dear :D

And: *thank you* again to my dear [demfeeeels](http://archiveofourown.org/users/demfeeeels) for her [evocative art of Haru's apartment](http://maybeillride-changemylife.tumblr.com/post/114728146024/demfeeeels-maybeillride-changemylife), which is now "canon" for me ;)

Makoto's weird problem with watching animal sex? …yep. That’s mine ;P


	33. Sometimes when we touch the honesty’s too much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chap's for the one-and-only Daxii for helping me figure out a Big Truth(tm) about Kisumi, and also for suggesting Haru's totally-nutjob (even by his standards) leggings this chap. Priceless.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with this silly-crazy thing and it's so good to be back with you :))))))

Kisumi blinks awake early, his field of vision filled with black. He puzzles over this for a second, his jet-lagged brain (both wide-awake and irritatingly slow) stupidly refusing to catch up with his eyes. He pushes his face forward experimentally … into threads of total, addictive softness. It feels so damn _good_ that he noses in, rubs his face through the strands in pure pleasure like an animal. A – dog snuggling into its human’s bed, maybe? He doesn’t care. He’s just happy.

“...what,” Haru finally says.

“Mmmm,” Kisumi says through a smile. It’s safe here, cuddled together on Haru’s bed under his comforter, and Haru’s so warm pressed up along his front as the little spoon. Lying together like this, the difference in their sizes is almost ridiculous. Kisumi tucks his long legs up against the back of Haru’s, slowly runs his hand up Haru’s stomach and chest in the big sleeping shirt that’s the last thing Kisumi remembers from last night. Haru, coming out of the bathroom changed from the … very tight, very _appealing_ body stocking thing into this t-shirt.

This fucking awesome shirt with Loosey-kun on the front. Like he should be on the cover of _Japanese Fanboy_ magazine.

“I feel bad,” Kisumi tilts his head down, whispers into Haru’s ear under him. “I woke you up being all hands-y. Just ‘cause my time’s all messed up doesn’t mean yours is. Go back to sleep.” He kisses the pretty, elegant line of Haru’s jaw, then can’t stop himself from moving up to lay a kiss on the hollow of his cheek.

Haru makes a little sorta-displeased grunt and then he’s twisting in Kisumi’s arms, turning over to face him and curling his arms and legs into him like a baby. His messy black head – that hair, what does Haru use to get his hair so soft anyway? – is tucked down, resting on Kisumi’s relaxed bicep as comfortably as if it’s a fluffy pillow. Contradicting his apology, Kisumi pulls him in closer, gently strokes Haru’s hair. This time Haru’s making a little noise, something between a whimper and a sigh, and there’s no mistaking the satisfaction in it.

 _So Haru likes it when people play with his hair,_ Kisumi thinks, his eyes following his hand as it travels from the crown to the nape of Haru’s neck and starts over at the top. _…note to self._

It hasn’t sunk in yet. This … quiet little scene he’s somehow in, the simplicity of just _touching_ , _nothing more,_ curled up together like they’ve known each other forever … _this can’t be._ Any second Momo’s gonna knock a bunch of shit off his closet shelf and it’s gonna sound like the wrath of God, and Kisumi’ll pop awake, lying crookedly on his own twin bed. He’ll stare up at his ceiling and the typical early-morning-in-Manhattan sounds will be getting going outside, and he’ll try his hardest to reconstruct how this felt.

To hold his dream-Haru, in his beautiful man’s soft bed. To be totally welcome and at-home. With no expectations or demands.

No big hands roaming impersonally over Kisumi, making the rounds of his various hot-spots. No need to act his way through enjoying it.

But Haru’s solidness in Kisumi’s arms reassures him this is no dream, the skin on his low back uncannily soft as he creeps his top hand under the hem of Haru’s shirt. He lets his hand travel lightly up and down Haru’s bare back, and the little man doesn’t make a peep, body totally relaxed in Kisumi’s arms.

_He likes being touched…? Hmmm._

Eventually he slides his hand down, pausing for just a moment before he sneaks under the waistband of Haru’s boxers. His heart can tell the subtle difference, suddenly too heavy pounding in his chest; but his long fingers never pause as they glide, as the lean muscle gets softer, blooms into the smooth rounds he was discreetly eyeing last night every chance he got.

He smiles unthinkingly against the top of Haru’s head as he maps out the terrain, gets a feel for the way Haru’s so streamlined and toned until you get _here._ To his ass, the one part of him that’s kinda extravagant, just tucked sweetly and almost saucily and he’d call it “perky,” if that wouldn’t out him as a totalcreep. _From all the swimming…_ he thinks, sensing the big muscles underneath his skin. Then his fingers are moving things up a level, as he gently trails his pointer finger into Haru’s crack and follows it down, to where things feel secret. Where Haru’s baking-hot.

Kisumi pulls his hand away too fast, rests it carefully on Haru’s hip and waits. There’s no change in his long inhales and exhales, and there’s something about that gentle rhythm that’s making Kisumi sleepy again. He snugs his head against Haru’s pillow and closes his eyes.

*

“Wake up,” a low voice is saying, close, almost right in his face. Kisumi flutters his eyes open –

And Haru’s _maybe_ an inch away, those fantasy-movie eyes gazing into Kisumi unblinking like Gollum, or something.

“Ah!!” Kisumi chokes and bats reflexively, whacking Haru’s planet-sized face. It disappears and Kisumi’s popping up after him instantly.

“Haru!” His host fell all the way to the foot of his bed, and is glaring darkly at him in his giant cartoon-fish shirt and waving Kisumi’s hands away as he tries to help him back up. “Sorry! I have these stupid overactive reflexes. You shoulda seen me at this haunted house once in high school. I freaked out so bad in one of the rooms I, like, went postal and attacked the ghouls.” He smirks and is satisfied at the quick loosening of Haru’s scowl, its replacement with his trademark tiny smile that’s sarcastic and subtle and total-Haru.

“Did they put a sign up with your picture saying ‘Do not sell tickets to this boy’?” Haru asks, scooting forward and sneakily wrapping his legs around where Kisumi sits cross-legged snarled-up in the comforter. He doesn’t even think as he stretches forward to lay a hand on each of Haru’s hips, so they’re sort of tied up in each other in this completely innocent way. Which naturally explains his beginnings of a hard-on.

“Worse.” Kisumi sticks his tongue – just the tip – out in a little gesture he’s been partial to as long as he can remember, whenever he’s experiencing something really embarrassing or causing extreme embarrassment to someone else. “They arrested me.”

Haru’s eyes, which he didn’t think could get any bigger, suddenly pop like an anime character. “Jesus, Kisumi! You little delinquent. And you being such jailhouse catnip, too.” He doesn’t do much – just tweaks an eyebrow up – but it’s enough to make Kisumi swallow hard.

“Yep,” he says through a luxurious yawn that lets him cover his moment of weakness. “You said it. They would’ve traded me like a pack of cigarettes. Good thing they didn’t book me and just gave me a warning instead.”

Haru whacks his shoulder, a funny sparkle in his eyes. “Okay, junior. Come talk to me when you’ve actually _lived._ ”

“Oh – and I’m sure you’re a hardened _criminal,_ ” Kisumi retorts, being a jerk and using his size to suddenly tilt forward and over Haru, pinning him securely to the bed still all wrapped-around each other. He’s grabbing Haru’s wrists from between them and pinning those too – a- _gain._ He stares down, suddenly speechless, Haru’s … _perfect_ face larger than life even being so small … and Kisumi asks himself just what he’s playing at here.

Haru takes care of the ambiguity for him.

“Take a bath with me,” Haru breathes, and Kisumi’s MUCH too happy that Haru sounds just as reckless as he’s feeling.

He decides not to think. “…S-sure,” he says, going for “nonchalant” and landing somewhere around “strangled.” Haru’s genuine smile back is worth it, it’s a fucking _priceless_ sight, and Kisumi wonders if Haru’s that happy whenever he takes a bath (given his water … thing) or if this qualifies as a special occasion.

“…you ever done this before?” he asks, easing up on Haru’s wrists to be sure he isn’t hurting him. Haru’s doing his smile again. “ _With someone else,_ dickhead. I know all about your bath thing.” Then Kisumi’s descending, experimentally, settling his big gangly-ass body fully on top of Haru’s little elegant one – he has to get Haru from every angle, to try him in every combination. He tucks his head in to Haru’s cheek, marveling at the way he just _covers_ the little man like a bony blanket. Haru doesn’t seem to mind, either, attempting no violence to get him off.

“Hell! I’ve spent quality time – when I _should’ve_ been fucking studying – browsing your ‘water’ hashtag. Good times.”

Haru’s snapping his head to Kisumi then, and they’re so close this way, noses brushing each other in an Eskimo kiss. But Haru’s face is tight with anger and worry and apparently not in the mood. “Thank you for the reminder. Are you skipping out on school to be here?? I don’t wanna be a reason you can’t graduate and end up, God, exotic dancing for a living.” And yet, he still isn’t making a move to shove Kisumi off or otherwise get away, and there’s something sweet about that, about Haru’s apparent need to _touch_ him that’s just as strong as his own.

And Kisumi _loves_ that he’s free and clear to just laugh, happily, at the Boy-King of the Spooky People under him. “Haru, baby, if I wanna strip this gorgeous body for money, ain’t NO stupid college degree gonna stop me.”

Haru still looks deeply skeptical. “So … you graduated, then…?”

Kisumi’s seized with the excited urge to lean in and bite his earlobe before answering. “Day after I get back. I’m all done with finals, Haru. You aren’t dating a college student anymore. You aren’t a creepy perv anymore!” He hauls himself up enough to grab Haru’s cheeks and drop down for a giant kiss, beaming so hard it hurts his cheeks when he lets Haru go.

Haru doesn’t even touch the creepy-perv part, which is both hilarious and honest of him. “… so … we’re dating, then?”

*

Kisumi knows Haru could whip up a fabulous breakfast for them – he’s seen his recipes and drawings (not pics, that’d be too predictable) of the finished dishes on his blog. But he’s clearly taking the “show the foreigner around my ‘hood” request seriously, getting them right out the door to grab food at a favorite coffeeshop after their bath.

That … bath.

They’re walking the few blocks from Haru’s place to the coffeeshop, and Haru’s being … unusually quiet, compared with how chatty they tend to be online and how much they’ve been bullshitting since he’s been here. But as soon as his tub finished filling and it was time to undress for a quick rinse under the showerhead, all conversation stopped just like the faucet shutting off.

“C’mon,” Haru finally muttered, and the sleep-shirt and polka-dotted boxers vanished like a magic trick, and it was just Haru’s punk-ass hair and acres – _miles –_ of that milky skin Skype was such crap at capturing accurately.

And a pissed-looking flush that beamed out of his face and neck and upper chest. And that painted his dick this … rosy-pink, travelling down the road to red. Because of _Kisumi_. And the sight he presented was so ripped from Kisumi’s dreams, he was suspended between the urge to gather Haru up in his arms and violate his promise to himself, and the bitter, total certainty this would all be over soon when he had to wake up to pee, or something.

Eventually Haru got tired of waiting for him to quit gawking, stepping over and impatiently pulling his t-shirt off as he laughed, shoving his old jeans and boxers down.

“Let’s see if we can get _you_ clean,” Haru said, his face so serious, and Kisumi couldn’t help but play along, letting Haru sit him on his shower stool, letting Haru turn the water to this bracingly-cool temp that reminded him as much as anything _honey, you are NOT in America anymore…_ But the edge Haru put him on was … delicious. The coolness of the water that brought him back instantly to summers at his cousin’s cabin on Lake Champlain. The tart-orange smell of the shower gel Haru used to methodically scrub him down. The way Haru put off showing himself as long as possible, working on his back and shoulders that were still sore from his epic journey. ALL of it, wrapping together to almost thread into his muscles, his tendons, made him want to growl at Haru for being such a tease –

…and beg him to just – keep going.

Then Haru was finally tucking himself around to scrub his front, and something about being able to _see_ him, his total dedication to his task as he knelt at Kisumi’s side, had the coils of tension unspooling in him. Haru treated his body like a sculpture he was finishing, Kisumi felt by the end there was no part of him Haru hadn’t examined. It felt thoughtful, careful, like Haru wasn’t doing it as foreplay or to be sexual at all, really. It was more like he wanted – needed – to learn Kisumi, from head to toe.

And he was almost irrationally proud to be getting _this_ attention from _this_ man.

“Your turn,” Kisumi said, sorry to break this peace they’d built up while Haru did his thing, and his little flame of pride glowed a little more at how willingly Haru took the stool, and sat patiently as Kisumi reciprocated for him.

Being able to touch Haru _everywhere,_ to confirm that he really was as soft as the secret touches in bed this morning implied, and best yet to do it with Haru’s BLESSING –

Kisumi blinks rapidly, yanking his gaze back up from where it’s been roaming over Haru’s (clothed) body as they wait at a light that’s just turned green, and they head across the street together.

Because the shower, being bathed by Haru like that, was insane enough. To then do the same to the first man of so many that he’s felt anything for, to let his hands learn what his eyes have been tracing, memorizing, storing, replaying, through the total-shit medium of webcams … well, it passed in a sort of blissful haze and then Haru was blinking slowly up at him, covered in perfumed suds, glistening like a body-wash commercial and Kisumi wanted to take him all over again. But they just smiled at each other shyly, took turns rinsing themselves…

…and eased, finally, into Haru’s DreamTub.

As they walk on through a street scene that should be totally enthralling to Kisumi – Tokyo! He’s in Tokyo, in a real neighborhood, at last! His fucking LIFELONG DREAM! – he can’t keep his eyes away from Haru. He isn’t even distracted by the goofball thing he has on, this old white lab coat and a pair of leggings in a Tetris print using all the loopiest colors in the Crayola box. Because he’s instantly back, locking eyes across the ridiculously-giant mini-pool as they both lowered into the steaming water. He’s unabashedly memorizing the delicate, symmetric line of his shoulders. He’s growling “… _fuck_ it” and lurching over to Haru’s side, starting a little tsunami that eventually subsided after he’d bullied his way in behind Haru.

He’s leaning back, sandwiched between the smoothness of the tub and the softness of Haru’s body, arms around Haru’s waist. And they just … breathed together, neither one of them feeling the need to say anything, to DO anything, Kisumi’s chest starting the cycle and carrying Haru up and Haru’s long exhale carrying them both down.

It was … perfect.

And Haru’s waiting for him now with his hand on the coffeeshop doorknob, not saying anything, just gazing at him sort of bemusedly, and they’ve made it to their destination. They’ve walked some unknown number of blocks, none of which made a single impression as bath-Haru and street-Haru flickered back and forth beside him and literally nothing else around mattered. He finally steps up to the little man and spontaneously folds his arms around his shoulders, squeezes him tight before he can get the door open and move them on to the next stage of their day.

“…what was that for?” Haru asks when Kisumi lets him go, looking up at him curiously and sneaking a hand onto his hip.

“For the bath. And for being so nice to me. That was really, really special,” Kisumi replies quietly.

Haru cocks his head at him thoughtfully and Kisumi suddenly feels … transparent. Like Haru’s seeing more than anyone possibly could…? Then a girl opens the door to leave the shop and breaks their moment, apologizing reflexively as they have to move out of her way so she can pass. Kisumi’s deeply amused as her polite words dry up once she catches a good look at him, openly looking him over from head to toes.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he grins at her, and her stare turns into a gape.

“Oh, _please,_ ” Haru huffs, pulling him into the shop by his elbow hard enough to almost hurt … and he can’t say it doesn’t give him a little – thrill. To get dragged away like that. To have Haru fussing over him like a goddamn jealous girlfriend.

To be completely honest, he may sort of loveit.

Haru does let him go once they’re inside, and he makes a point of looking around, drinking it in. This is stop one on their little tour of Haru’s Tokyo Life, that he insisted on seeing, and it’s like another huge piece of Haru’s puzzle is clicking into place in his head. The apartment was the first step, Haru’s private sanctuary that Kisumi had seen and imagined, the dictionary-definition of “cozy.” This coffeeshop gives him Haru’s home away from home, his hangout, where he’d write and blog with Kisumi … before all these b.f.s came on the scene, anyway. He memorizes the modern woodblock art on the walls, the little play area where a young mom builds a tower of blocks with her toddler kid, the noodly jazz wafting over the sound system.

“This place is awesome, Haru!” he enthuses, throwing an arm around Haru’s shoulders. It just feels so – _right._ Like, finally.

“Wait ‘til you try their pastries. You’ll flip,” Haru promises, allowing the arm and walking them over to the counter. The barista, this cute college girl, perks up instantly to see Haru ( _you_ hypocrite, _Haru! Who’s the flirt now??_ ), getting this smile that lights her whole face and even a little pink to her cheeks.

Then she glances up to Kisumi and the smile dwindles. Kisumi feels a dangerous little grin of his own bloom. _Ah, so she doesn’t like someone playing with her toy, eh?_

Haru, funnily, is apparently oblivious to the mini-drama playing out right in front of him. “Hi, how are you? … I’d like a large coffee for here please, and whatever’s freshest from the oven. Doesn’t matter what,” he tells the girl, before turning to Kisumi with his eyebrows raised. “What do you want? Go nuts, it’s my treat. I gotta start making up for that stupid plane change-fee somehow.”

Kisumi locks eyes with the girl, trying to figure her out. “I’ll have what he’s having, please. Sounds like I can’t go wrong with any of your sweet things.” Then he can’t help it. He drops a wink at her.

She squints up at him for a long moment, not even pretending to wear her “customer service” face anymore, then turns back to Haru. _Here we go,_ he thinks with relish.

“This is none of my business,” she says very seriously to Haru like Kisumi isn’t even there, “but you looked so happy here yesterday with that cute redhead. And he looked so _into_ you. And I guess that’s all I’m gonna say, ‘cause again, it’s none of my business. You just see things when you work this job, you know?” She turns quickly to get their order and Kisumi looks at Haru, who’s gone full-deadpan. He leans into Haru’s ear.

“Busted!” he whispers theatrically. Oh, but this is even funnier than he thought. This girl doesn’t want anything interfering with her vision of Haru and Matsuoka Rin together. Kisumi doesn’t blame her. Unless Haru’s got _another_ redhead in this crazy hookup…??

Haru’s apparently either cooler than ice or operates without shame in a way that makes Kisumi feel like a prude. “Oh … no. We’re polyromantic. It’s okay,” he tells her after a little thoughtful pause in the same conversational tone someone might use to ask for soy milk. She sets their mugs down with an almost violent clunk and leans into the counter at him.

“You and that redhead and _this_ guy?” she asks incredulously, and Kisumi thinks he should probably be offended but he’s too busy being entertained.

“It’s not just us. There are two other guys too, and if you think my man here and that redhead are hot, honey, wait ‘til you see _them_ ,” Kisumi informs her, reaching in his back pocket for his wallet and laying his credit card down before Haru can beat him to it. Haru scowls at him then tries to get his own wallet out but Kisumi clamps his beat-up messenger bag shut. The girl’s blushing freely.

He’s inordinately pleased that she obediently runs his card like they just had a normal customer-employee exchange and not the totally _X-Files_ thing that just happened, and they grab their mismatched mugs and plates. They turn to go but apparently she isn’t done with them yet. “Just … just use protection, okay?” she says earnestly to Haru, quietly to avoid the whole shop hearing (they ARE in Japan after all), and Kisumi can’t hold back anymore. He busts out in totally delighted laughter.

Haru’s looking up at him like he wishes maybe he had a muzzle in his bag. But he just turns back to the barista.

“Good advice. Thanks,” he tells her.

*

The second stop on Haru’s TokyoTour is this totally-hipster thrift store, crammed wall to wall with a riot of clothes from every era and taste-level. Haru’s costume today suddenly makes about a million times more sense – _so this is Haru’s shopping go-to, huh?_ – and he smirks as Haru grabs his arm again and forcefully guides them in, away from the truly crazy shit, towards the rear of the store where the colors start to look a lot classier. They pass a little knot of punk kids, guys and girls, looking like they’re on a break from a video shoot … but they stop their conversation as he and Haru go by, stare openly at _him_ like they’re trying to figure him out. He puts a little extra saunter in his step for their benefit, hearing a little outbreak of whispers behind them.

Haru finally stops them in the vintage section, and Kisumi gazes around at the total _Mad Men-_ fabulousness on all sides. “Ya know, you wouldn’t know it to look at me in my slob-gear here but I fucking love a nice suit,” Kisumi says, reaching out to flip through the jackets carefully arranged by color. “Especially old ones like this. I can just picture sitting in some sunken living room, wearing one of these with a Scotch in my hand. And my hottie on my lap.” He grins over at Haru to be sure there’s no confusion who he means.

“Sorry to kill your fantasy. But no laps,” Haru says, totally focused on the rack as he assesses something. He has the same “artist face” as when he scrubbed Kisumi down in the shower, and his laser-focus is almost dangerously hot. Kisumi abandons his half-assed browsing and moves in behind him, wraps his arms around him and puts his chin on Haru’s head. Just like their spoons from this morning … only vertical, and out in public, and Haru’s just going on with his power-shopping like he doesn’t even notice, and Kisumi loves it.

“No laps? You fun-hater, Haru.”

Haru finally seems to have come to a decision and pulls a suit down in this gorgeous champagne color. It’s big, _huge_ by Japanese standards and Kisumi wonders if an American owned this one originally. “It’s the ‘60s. Of COURSE no laps. We would’ve been closeted as all fucking hell. Even more than we are.” Haru’s twisting in Kisumi’s hold to look up at him, and there’s a challenge on his face.

Kisumi gladly takes it. “Not in _my_ fantasy, baby. In my scenario, you sit on my lap enjoying your tonic water or whatever you’re drinking. And I do this.” And he steals a move straight from a movie, cups Haru’s chin in a big hand and tilts it up, and bends down to kiss him. It’s a confident kiss – more accurately, it’s a “fuck you, world” kiss – and he can almost feel the shocked and disgusted stares of their imaginary swingin’-60s cocktail party audience behind his closed eyes as they move, as he feels Haru’s little smile against his lips. It’s just a joke, Kisumi doesn’t really _do_ social statements, but it feels the tiniest bit revolutionary regardless, on top of the uncomplicated thrill racing through him at the feel of Haru pressed up against him and opened up for him.

When they finish though, there isn’t a scandalized homophobic audience ready to kick them out of the place. Instead, the little group of punks has bravely come over, led by a gangly guy in a safety-pinned and patched black leather jacket and a pair of painted-on skinny jeans. His friends hang back a step and look like they could pass out or possibly die from the excitement. Two girls are actually having to hold each other up.

 _These aren’t New York punk kids,_ Kisumi thinks, wondering how this day could get any funnier. _Apparently Japan – even Tokyo! – doesn’t do irony when faced with star power like me._

“Hi!” he smiles at them. “Nice day to shop, huh? This place is _great,_ my friend practically lives here and now I see why.”

The group exchanges a fast _it’s-true_ look and the lead guy looks even more determined when he turns back to them. “Um … we’re so sorry to interrupt you, but … we’ve been having a debate and wondering if you’re – someone famous. We _swear_ we’ve seen you before…?” He breaks off to make a compulsive little head-duck that in any other context would just mean he’s shy, but in _this_ context is pure Japan. “So sorry again!”

Kisumi can feelHaru practically quivering next to him in his effort to hold back a nasty comment and leans a forearm companionably on his shoulder. _I am in HEAVEN,_ he realizes.

“Good eye, guys! Yeah, I’m a drummer in New York. You’ve probably seen my stuff around on YouTube and Twitter and other places.” His mini-fanclub’s eyes are huge, dropping down to measure the size of his arms now too. Haru looks unamused so he hurries up. “ _Unfortunately,_ my band is taking a time-out and we’re probably done for good. So I’m here in Japan to see about starting up a new project with a few friends.” He squeezes Haru’s shoulder and Haru gets up on tiptoes to reach his ear.

“…when you’re done with your adoring fans I’ll be waiting for you in the changing room,” he murmurs, and slips out from his hand and disappears behind the curtain of one of the little cubicles in the men’s section. Kisumi knows a cue when he sees one.

The punk kids look genuinely awestruck now and Kisumi wonders with a vague sense of guilt who they _think_ he is. “So, I’d better go try something on but it was really good to meet you. Thanks for saying hi!” He nods to them and reaches out to shake the lead guy’s hand.

“Could – could we get your autograph??” the guy asks in a rush, and a girl behind him fumbles a Hello Kitty notebook (he assumes _this_ at least is ironic) out of her backpack and shyly holds up a fresh page and pen for him.

 _My first autograph,_ Kisumi thinks. _Well, hot DAMN._

“My pleasure!” he beams, signing his name across the whole page with a flourish like fucking John Hancock, doing it the Western way and putting “Kisumi” first. The girl hugs it to her chest when she takes it back. “There ya go! Thanks again.”

“Good luck on the new project!” the girl gushes as the little group does the awkward-back-away dance.

Kisumi snorts. “Thanks! I’m looking forward to it.”

Then they’re fully turned around and hurrying away towards the exit, giggling, and Kisumi grins and ducks into the changing room. He firmly tells himself to be glad and not disappointed that Haru’s respecting his wishes and is still fully clothed, sitting with one long leg crossed over the other on a stool in the corner with his hands in the pockets of the nutty labcoat, the dolphin necklace from Kisumi peeking out of its V-neck. Doing his crooked Haru-smile at him.

And somehow, the sight is enticing enough he has to step over, scoop an arm around Haru’s back and knees and pick him up without warning. He gets a tiny “…hey!” out of Haru and settles them both back on the stool, Haru sitting crossways across his lap.

“Nope. No more ‘60s fantasies for you,” Haru says with finality but his smile betrays him. Kisumi grins back and runs the hand on Haru’s back up and down. “So what fake name did you use for your ‘autograph’?” He air-quotes like the complete asshole he is.

“Um, mine. Isn’t that how you’re supposed to do it?”

Haru’s squinting at him like he’s calculating _just_ how much trouble Kisumi may present in the future and he wants to tell him to give up, Haru may as well enjoy the ride.

“…usually. But I have some terrible news to break to you: _you aren’t famous._ ” Haru lays a hand on his chest in mock-sympathy, over his heart, and Kisumi hopes his heartbeat doesn’t give away how … undone he still feels to be _this_ close, _this_ casually.

He puts their foreheads together in what’s becoming his favorite place. “Hmmm. No. But don’t be surprised, Haru. By the end of the week, I might be.”

***

The wife, [Daxii](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Daxii/pseuds/Daxii), helped me have a sorta “omg I maybe just solved the Rubix cube” moment about Kisumi. He’s no virgin. He’s had a semi-tragic time in that he keeps falling into questionable choices, all driven by this almost compulsive need that’s never been satisfied to be close to people in every sense of the word. Haru’s something different for him and he wants to nurture this special _thing_ they have without immediately leaping to sex. Now if only he could communicate all that to Haru… (while I'm at it, READ her deliciously Kisu-everyone-Haru [Free!lance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3655137/chapters/8076177). You won't be sorry :D)

And at the same time, I couldn’t resist making this about the glories of being a big Westerner (even a Japanese-American) who sticks out like a sore thumb in Japan. _This stuff happens._ When I visited there a group of schoolgirls forced my bros to sign autographs, thinking they were Tom Cruise and a dude from a hair-metal band. ([sexywhales](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sexywhales/pseuds/sexywhales) would know all about that.)

Kisumi’s fake drummer alter-ego is suspiciously similar to the unforgettable Kisumi in the lovely [rosaveritas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rosaveritas/pseuds/rosaveritas)’ [Can You See Me?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2291693/chapters/5038907), which was sorta the fic that popped my Free! cherry here (…ew, sorry). If you haven’t checked that out yet, it’s never too late!

Please stay tuned for next time when Haru’s two worlds finally come crashing together in The Great OT5 Meet-up, with hopefully less-violent results…


	34. Two sides to every story

“…unnnh! God _dammit…_ ”

The rhythm of the creaking bed is approaching a level that could be called “feverish” without sounding clichéd.

“You doing okay?” Low tone, a little uneven, filled with unmistakeable concern.

“…yes, fuuuuck, yes…”

“Now go deep, Mako,” Rin puts in from over on the couch, and Sousuke’s hit with the simultaneous urges to storm over and kill him, or pull him down to the bed with him and Makoto. Maybe thankfully, he’s … unable to do anything with the big man on top of him, perfect muscles flexing together as he drives into him. But it’s Makoto, _Shachi,_ so somehow he’s making it … playful?? Snapping his hips with this almost-sass, as easy as snapping his fingers, and staring down at Sousuke’s panting face with these narrowed eyes and crooked little grin. Like he’s having the time of his life. And like he’s maybe a little … dangerous.

And then he’s taking Rin’s “direction” and switching it up, trading the rapid thrusts for slow, deep ones that get Sousuke moaning at the end of each. He reaches up to grab Makoto’s undulating back with both hands, like that’ll somehow give him an anchor in this roiling sea of almost-foreign sensation.

“Do – do you do _everything_ Rin says…?” he tries to scoff but he’s breathing so hard the effect is pretty much shot. Makoto shifts onto his forearms and acts like he’s pondering the question.

“Mmmm … yeah. Makes life easier,” Makoto grins down, going particularly hard on the last word and trading Sousuke’s moan for a gasp.

“You’re damn right. Mako, hold his hands,” Rin demands, and Makoto’s peeling Sousuke’s hands one at a time from his low back to fold them firmly into the mattress on either side of his head. Sousuke tips his head back at the next stroke, trying to get his breath back, lost in this feeling of total _helplessness._ He could take Makoto in a fight if it came to that, if he could get him down on the ground, he’s definitely bigger though they’re comparable. But now, snugged under him so completely it could be a wrestling hold, Makoto filling him, Sousuke just – gives up. For the moment anyway.

 _This is how Haru feels,_ vaguely shoots through his mind, and his brain does a weird and uncanny double-exposure trick, superimposing his own massive form above onto Makoto’s, puts little Haru in his own place below. Puts him in this overwhelming swirl, someone moving in him and taking total control. He closes his eyes tight.

“…a little help, Rin?” Makoto is saying a little shakily, from high above, and Sousuke opens his eyes to Makoto sitting back, pausing, cocking his head over a shoulder to finally call their obnoxious pervy voyeur over. Sousuke looks…

And Rin is oh … so slowly leveraging himself off the loveseat, where he’s been sprawled like a debauched Roman emperor commanding his two favorite gladiators to fuck for his amusement. Or something.

It’s gotta be the state of maximum overload his senses are all at, Sousuke knows. The redhead is _glowing_ in the lazy noon sun, the room is bright but the man is _glowing,_ his shaggy punk hair swaying lightly and ivory arms reaching for his vaulted ceiling in a giant stretch. _Unlike_ him and Makoto, bareass naked on the bed, Rin’s wearing what apparently is his usual black tank and loose sweats, which only emphasizes the weird power-differential in the room. But Sousuke knows this man’s face, and the fact that he and Makoto could get him so flushed without laying a hand on him … contradicting his carefully-amused “director” look?

He finds himself grinning over.

“Yeah, _Riiin,_ ” he coos, and loves how the red eyes squint bitchily at him. “What, don’t wanna wreck your manicure?”

Then Rin is _storming_ over, so fast and pissed-off Sousuke’s almost a little scared at the woman-out-of-a-Greek-myth sight. Medea maybe, or one of the Furies?? But he can’t pull anything else up as Rin’s suddenly kneeling on the bed right next to them. Sousuke expects a firm hand around him and his cock apparently does too, an extra surge of heat rising and surprising him.

What he _doesn’t_ expect is the flat smack as Rin slaps Makoto’s ass, and Sousuke blinks up stupidly.

“Swap out,” Rin tells Makoto decisively, and Sousuke’s gaping, and he’s suddenly jealous of the instant flash of communication that passes between the two men above him just in a look. Makoto turns back to him and gently releases his pinned hands, bringing them up to rest on Makoto’s thighs.

“…is that okay with you, Sousuke-kun?” Makoto asks him, with such care, and the endearment catches in his ears and almost stops him from being able to answer.

He has to clear his throat. “Yeah, sure. After a Mack truck like you, little Rin’s gonna be a walk in the park,” he jokes – lamely – but somehow the two ex-porn stars share an amused look anyway, even as he senses Rin really _is_ pissed at him.

“Alright, then.” Makoto eases out and Sousuke can’t suppress an embarrassing little groan as he goes, and he’s silently grateful for a short rest as Rin gets rid of his sweats, revealing nothing underneath … except a hectic, rose-toned erection, glistening with lube. So – their little observer was actively participating after all.

“…you liar, Matsuoka. You total _liar,_ ” Sousuke says through a gust of unexpected laughter that hits him so hard, he has to hold his sweaty stomach for a second and just shake. Rin’s caught mid-crawl as he trades spots with Makoto, and he scowls petulantly like a teenage girl. Makoto just reclines back with a little smile.

“Could you BE any more of a dick?” Rin asks rhetorically. He’s kneeling – prettily (?) – with an unwrapped condom ready to go. Sousuke grabs his wrist and stops him before he can put it on.

“Don’t use that,” he says abruptly, not even understanding why. Rin surprises him, widening his eyes instead of narrowing them. Their impromptu threesome freezes for a few beats.

“…you know where we’ve been, Sousuke,” Rin finally replies, slowly, his face splashed with tight concern. _He shows it differently than Makoto,_ Sousuke notes dimly. _But it’s there, it’s all OVER him. Have I ever met someone this emotional…?_

Sousuke’s sitting up, then, and swiftly pulling Rin’s tank up and over his head, like he was just looking for something to do to keep his hands busy. Rin looks up at him skeptically, face demanding an answer, hair a total mess. He cups Rin’s angled cheeks.

“Do you think I give a shit? You’re here now. And I trust you. Both of you,” he says awkwardly, meeting eyes with Makoto’s over Rin’s bare shoulder.

Rin sends Makoto a final look back too before turning to him decisively. “I _want_ both of you. Cause why would I stop at just one?” he grins, but his eyes are a little too bright, and Sousuke knows they’re tears Rin’s holding back. And Sousuke leans in, gives him a soft kiss that doesn’t really fit with the activities that are coming up or the snippy thing he seems to share with the redhead. But it feels absolutely right, too. And when he pulls back, Rin’s bright eyes aren’t teary, they’re _shining_ at him.

“Makes sense to me,” Sousuke figures, cocking an eyebrow at Makoto as he crawls to join them, easing behind to rest his chin on Rin’s shoulder, his tanned skin slick with sweat a total contrast to Rin’s perfect paleness. He can almost feel his mind busily collecting notes for Tanglewood and Miller. “Seems like a waste to have _Makoto_ just sit there twiddling his thumbs.”

“I was gonna be, uh, ‘twiddling’ something else. But that’s sweet of you,” Makoto serves back, fast, and he’s smiling, and Sousuke’s – happy. And excited, another one of those Christmas morning shots of pure adrenaline racing through him.

_…can it really be as simple as this? Can our new thing really be like this?_

But Rin doesn’t give him time to have a nice, peaceful reflective moment, as he’s shoving Sousuke back down with hard hands. Sousuke lands with a little “…ooof!” that has Rin totally breaking character to huff his laugh above him. And he’s leaning forward to push Sousuke’s legs apart with surprising strength, hooking Sousuke’s knees with his elbows. His delicate face – it’s filled with the same excitement Sousuke feels, pulsing through his body.

“… _do_ it already,” he growls up, and Rin smirks down, and then there’s a hot, hard spread as Rin _(Same)_ slides smoothly into him.

“Fuck…” Sousuke gasps, and Rin’s – unexpectedly – quiet, just huffing little gusts of air that tickle his shoulder, where he’s tucked his face. But he doesn’t move further, and Sousuke understands why as Makoto’s easing above them both like a living blanket, arms braced on either side.

“…are you ready, Rin?” Makoto asks quietly at Rin’s ear, like he’s done it a hundred, thousand times before, and Sousuke blinks up, Rin hot inside him and around him.

Rin glances back, squinting. “Try me and see,” he smirks back, and when the muscles around Sousuke suddenly tense – when he bites his full lower lip with those uncanny teeth – Sousuke knows Makoto’s slowly slid in.

 _I … am living one of my own bookmarked videos,_ Sousuke somehow manages to think before he knows he won’t be able to think anymore. _WHAT is this life…?_

“Were – were you playing with yourself on my loveseat, Rin?” Sousuke gets out, trying for “lecturing dad” even if his current position severely compromises the effect, using as cocky a tone as he can manage. But then he’s making this choked little sound as Makoto shifts above them, and Rin’s doing him one better and going “…unnngh…!” in his ear, face tucked back into Sousuke’s shoulder. Rin’s … clearly not Makoto-size; but there’s some kind of exponential thing that Makoto’s giving him by leading their charge, using Rin almost as his … tool? Some physics thing with force and mass and velocity, and Rin’s grabbing Sousuke’s sides for dear life, and Sousuke’s reaching up with shaking arms to try to hold them all, as impossible as it is.

Sousuke isn’t clear how long they all last – he’s sure Rin, and definitely Makoto, could go on for as long as needed (and has compelling visual evidence of same). But at some point he feels his breathing tip over from “harsh” into “labored” – and Makoto’s doing it _again,_ somehow asking “You okay, Sousuke?” He isn’t even able to put together a reply, trying to nod instead. Rin stays buried in his shoulder, muffled gasps drifting out.

Makoto’s pulling off then, like he’s making some executive decision for the good of the group. Sousuke’s almost embarrassed at the instant relief he feels, as he _finally_ gets a fucking full breath so sweet, he’s growling up at them through a grin.

“…come on, Rin, do it. Come in me. _Sometime_ today.”

Rin tilts up and stares down at him for a bit, wearing this cool, calculating look. Makoto’s sprawled beside them, and other than the sweaty, godlike nudity and still-towering erection, could be at a leisurely company picnic for the total control he apparently has over his breath and the situation in general. Sousuke is silently, grudgingly, _finally_ impressed.

“Makoto.” Rin snaps his fingers once, sharply, gesturing down at Sousuke’s head. “I just figured out what role you’re gonna play in the big finale here. Would you please, _please_ give him something to suck on and shut his big mouth up?”

Makoto glances over, _…you sure…?_ in his eyes. Sousuke squints back and makes a sort of over-the-top kissy face back. _Yeah. Just try it._

Rin shifts up into a kneel and grabs Sousuke’s hips. “Thanks, babe. I’d appreciate it.”

*

Sousuke lets himself just float for a while after they all finish, losing track of what else is going on in the room or even where Rin and Makoto are – fuck, it’s his bed, after all, and clearly they’re big boys able to entertain themselves. The bigger issue is how utterly exhausted he is, all of a sudden, the full-body sensory assault and the delayed climax taking more out of him than he’s willing to admit. So he’s glad to retreat, just feel some dim sense of comfort, warmth. Coziness.

He finally blinks his eyes open to the sound of suppressed snickering, somewhere below him (?). The first sight to meet him is Makoto, whose upside-down face tilts over him with a sweet smile like he’s genuinely happy Sousuke’s awake, as he puts a marker in a book and sets it aside.

 _…have I ever seen him in glasses…?_ Sousuke wonders. And then: _I’m in his lap. My head is in Tachibana Makoto’s lap. Like a fucking high-school kid._

“Hi, Sousuke! How are you doing?” Tachibana Makoto is asking him quietly, and Sousuke feels a big, gentle hand stroke lightly through his hair … and he wonders if Makoto remembered how much he liked that, or if his instincts are just that good. And knowing Makoto, Sousuke’s realizing it’s probably the latter.

The snickering at the foot of the bed suddenly stops and Makoto glances up.

“Rin, really…? Don’t do anything that’s gonna get any of us arrested,” he scolds – playfully – but Sousuke’s flipped into Red Alert anyway and is struggling onto his elbows to see.

Rin’s staring down at a phone in his hands – _Sousuke’s_ phone _–_ sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs crossed and a look of pure glee on his face. The free leg swings happily. He’s also apparently hopped on the Haru Crazy Train, bundled up comfortably in Sousuke’s gray bathrobe (though the effect isn’t exactly the same given that he isn’t swimming in it).

“Hey!” Sousuke finally barks, and Rin glances up, unconcerned. “What the fuck are you doing with my phone!”

“Texting.” Rin looks down at it, reconsiders. “Nah. Sexting.” He shrugs. “Inside joke.”

Rin’s barely done talking before Sousuke’s launched himself up and off Makoto’s lap and has yanked his phone away from the colossal troublemaker. He stabs the latest message in his Sent queue and blinks down…

…at a dick-pic, of _him,_ framed in this almost-majestic way that makes it look like he’s splashed across a movie screen. Clearly Rin took it when he was semi-conscious ( _in Makoto’s lap)_ after the action wrapped up but the erection on the screen has barely gotten the memo, still big and red enough to get Makoto saying “…oh, _my_...” with this almost grandmotherly concern as he peeks over Sousuke’s shoulder. It’d be deeply funny. If it wasn’t currently happening to Sousuke.

“You guys are totally overlooking the best part of this whole thing,” Rin complains, delicately lifting the phone from Sousuke’s slack grip and scrolling so he can turn the caption to face them.

_Haru: we’re watching Titanic. Still waiting for the ship to go down tho (DAMN I forgot how long this thing is)_

Then he sees a quick follow-up text under that: _wish you were here, babe ;)_

“Rin. You are such a naughty boy,” Makoto’s saying in this dark, scoldingvoice, pure sex, and suddenly Sousuke realizes _that’s_ how you do the “lecturing dad,” and that he may have to swallow his pride and ask the big brute for pointers.

Then he realizes, as Rin snorts and reaches over to apparently try to tickle Makoto, that he should be royally pissed. But – improbably – all he wants to do is laugh. And maybe give Rin a spanking. Just to show him who’s boss.

Sousuke smirks over at where Rin has decisively misjudged and is pinned by Makoto, wheezing helplessly as the bigger man digs into his ribs.

“Hey, ‘kid,’ joke’s on you. I told you how shitty he is about texting. You think he’s gonna even see that?” He gets up and stands looking at the photo again, before shaking his head and heading for the bathroom. “It’s a shame, really.”

Rin’s giggling like a grade-schooler behind him and he has his hand on the bathroom doorknob when his text notification pings. He stops dead and hears breathless-anticipation-silence behind him as he opens the message.

 **Haru:** _hiiiii guys omg what a surprise to see - !?!?! but it’s a nice surprise don’t worry ;DDD c u soon! <333_

He’s silent long enough, staring at the inscrutable and _so-_ not-Haru text like that’ll somehow decode it for him, that Rin’s yelling at him from the bed.

“Well, is it Haru? Ya forget how to read or something?”

“If I know anybody, I know Haru. Either he’s … having a stroke, or he didn’t write this.” Sousuke frowns at the … fluffy, cheerful, “youthful” text. None of which describe his little man. “Could he be with Hazuki?” he mutters to himself, freezing solid at the thought of the blond menace getting _that_ level of detail on him.

Rin’s already marched over, leaving Makoto looking amused on the bed. “Give me _that,_ ” he demands, swiping the phone away and speed-reading the manic message. The face he turns back up to Sousuke is one of total, wide-mouthed comprehension.

“What??” it’s Sousuke’s turn to demand.

“He’s bringing the boy-toy,” Rin says slowly, the _Eureka!_ look now a sly, slanted grin. “He came to Tokyo early somehow, and they’re on their way over.”

“Holy shit,” Sousuke remarks distantly, as Rin nods and punches his good shoulder, and Makoto’s suddenly joining them.

“Let’s all hop in the shower and get some non-shut-in clothes on, fast,” he says, taking control of the situation, and Sousuke’s glad. Because as they hurry in and Rin and Makoto peel out of the robe and sweats, and Sousuke starts the water, he keeps zoning out and staring into space, hounded by a persistent image:

_Haru’s giant bathtub, which Sousuke’s had on his own private “to-do” list, brimming with steaming water … and Haru, flushed, leaning back in the arms of the pretty punk kid, face unclear given their single short meeting via crappy digital camera. The water rocking rhythmically front to back as the kid moves Haru, wrapping him in strong arms…_

*

Haru doesn’t just waltz in (with his hypothetical boy-toy) when he gets there half an hour later. Haru’s _been_ invading at whatever-the-fuck hour with no concern for what Sousuke may be in the middle of practically since they started working together, so to have him acting like a houseguest all of a sudden sets off a little nervous skitter in the back of Sousuke’s mind. He hears his doorbell so rarely, in fact, that he just looks around blankly when it goes off, finally prompting Rin to give him a gentle shove in that direction before retreating to let him answer.

“Sousuke-saaan! Hi!” comes bursting out as soon as he has it open, and yes, _OH_ yes, it’s Haru’s little college student, alright. But as he takes a step in to grab Sousuke’s hand, holding it between them as he pulls Sousuke into a giant enthusiastic hug while he slaps his back with the other hand, he realizes “little” is the ultimate misnomer. This kid is _BIG,_ maybe as big as Makoto, almost as big as Sousuke himself, and he thinks _…basketball…?_ distantly as broad shoulders press up against his own.

Then the kid is finally letting him go, and Sousuke’s so startled by his overwhelmingly American entrance he can hardly think to get mad about it. The kid switches to grabbing and squeezing his upper arms, just _beaming_ at him, and Sousuke thinks _Haru did say he was beautiful, and he didn’t lie._ He’s … gorgeous. Sorta a cross between Rin and Makoto in a way – he has Rin’s outrageous rock-star coloring, hair, almost-delicate features, and they look so different on someone Makoto’s height and build. Like he’s – a drummer in a skater band, maybe, something loud and hyper and obnoxious. Not heavy metal; Sousuke only reads “cheerfulness” on him, no angst in sight.

 _Damn. How the hell does_ Haru _get along with this happy camper without killing him??_

“Shigino Kisumi, it’s so nice to meet you in the flesh!” he says in a bright, sunny voice, but Sousuke’s already looking away, not to be rude but almost by instinct, to find Haru standing quietly at his side. His mind takes a snapshot – Haru’s usual crazy fashion, nothing new there.

But the little dolphin necklace he’s wearing is unfamiliar and way too pretty – too _feminine –_ for Haru to buy on his own. He peeks up (shyly?) and the delicate pink of his cheeks is another telltale sign of the shifts in their … new reality.

“…hi, Sou,” Haru says. “So. I brought this kid, right, he was loitering down in the lobby and I didn’t want him harrassing people and getting you in trouble with the concierge.” His little face relaxes into his tiny lopsided smile. “He had a bunch of Scientology pamphlets. I got concerned.”

“You _jerk_ , Haru,” the kid, Kisumi _(God, what an ironic fucking name, honestly)_ protests, releasing Sousuke’s arms and immediately turning to enfold Haru, just _drape_ himself over him front and back. Like he’s decided that’s his new habitat. Sousuke narrows his eyes.

“...just … call me Sousuke,” he starts.

“And please call me Kisumi!” The pink-haired kid is apparently in bliss, radiating back at Sousuke and squinting violet eyes that remind him of Rei. Haru – Haru’s … uncomfortable, standing with one hand in the pocket of this ridiculous labcoat he’s wearing and the other holding a shopping bag, and Sousuke feels another pang of jealousy – _out with this_ kid _, shopping like a couple of boyfriends…_

 _…did YOU ever take him shopping…?_ some other part of him asks firmly – if he were a Freudian, he’d say his id was duking it out with his superego, if that wasn’t in fact a bunch of contrived bullshit. _…no? Okay, then._ And he’s surprised, how cautiously good it feels to hear that firm, confident second inner voice, so much more _him_ than that skittery nervous thing. He feels his face slowly relax.

“So, Kisumi! We were wondering if you, uh, happened to intercept a text we sent Haru a little while ago.” Kisumi’s look of instant delight and Haru’s creeping suspicion tell Sousuke an epic drama without a single word, and a chuckle is startled out of him.

“Invite them to the living room!” Rin yells from behind them. “Jesus _Christ,_ Yamazaki! While we’re young!”

Sousuke’s still chuckling as he turns, leading them (well – leading _Kisumi,_ who’s still draped over Haru like a living mink stole) out of the foyer. He’s … strangely touched to see Rin and/or Makoto have taken over the “host” role while he was at the door, putting a bottle of decent chardonnay and five glasses out, a plate of good cheese. They’ve somehow found a few energy drinks in his fridge too. _Gotta have something for the college student,_ he smirks to himself.

Rin is nestled comfortably in one of the couches, Makoto beside him with an arm around his shoulders. Kisumi sits on the other couch and pulls Haru down with him … _almost_ in his lap. Haru doesn’t quite look like he’s at the dentist, but maybe the doctor’s instead. Waiting for a nice friendly prostate exam. Kisumi doesn’t seem to notice as he gazes at Makoto and Rin with starry fanboy eyes.

Rin does this little tough-guy chin-flick over at them. “Hey. I think we can skip the introductions given you’ve already seen me and Makoto, uh, _in flagrante delicto._ So we’re basically blood-bros at this point.” He gets this sudden, dumb look Sousuke’s learning is specific to one person. “…how’s it going, Haru?”

Sousuke settles into the free spot on Haru’s other side, starting to pour the wine and watching the task intently so he has an excuse _not_ to stare at him. Haru takes longer than it should to answer a question so simple.

“…good. We’ve been having a really nice time.” Sousuke sneaks a look and Haru’s blush is worse, and oh, how he wishes he could duck down to kiss him.

“That’s funny! So have we.” Rin’s starting to giggle helplessly as he accepts his full glass. “Hey kid, you really haven’t shown Haru the texts yet?”

“No. No, I have not,” the kid grins, and to Sousuke’s surprise he’s taking a glass of wine too. Only Haru is abstaining, and a distant red flag pops up in the back of his mind.

His little man swivels around, staring Kisumi down at ultra-close range with flamethrower-intensity. “You _do_ know there’s this thing called ‘trust,’ right? And there’s this OTHER cool thing called ‘privacy,’ which is really boss. Ring any bells?”

“Nah,” Kisumi says lightly, reaching around to deftly lift Haru’s crappy old phone out of the labcoat pocket, and Haru blinks like the kid just did a magic trick. “Here, I’ll show you.” He quickly dials to something and holds it as Haru stares down, eyes flicking over the little history. Sousuke thinks he probably shouldn’t be so satisfied to see them widen gradually, until Haru looks up to him, across to Rin and Makoto, and they’re so big he’s like some kind of adorable woodland creature.

“…yes?” Sousuke finally prompts when Haru’s silence gets a little too long. “I’m guessing you aren’t reacting to the pic given how, uh, familiar you are with the model.”

“It chimed while you were in the bathroom,” Kisumi tells Haru, earnestly. “When the front screen said it was from ‘Yamazaki’ I grabbed it. I just wanted to check it for you, Haru. I wasn’t expecting to see _that.”_ He leans over to whack Sousuke’s knee. “I mean, damn, I’ve heard of rolling out the red carpet when you have a guest, but that’s a whole new level.”

“You should see the real thing. You know how pictures make everything look smaller…? Yeah,” Sousuke’s shooting off thoughtlessly, and Kisumi’s answering grin is giant and genuine and just a little bit wicked – this kid is on his wavelength, apparently. So is Rin, his goofy laugh bursting out behind them. Makoto’s quiet, though; and Haru’s silent, shooting those huge deer-eyes at him in some kind of wordless assessment.

Sousuke sits back so he can see everyone, and Makoto leans in, face almost aggressively friendly. “So, Kisumi, it’s just wonderful to be here with you – what a great surprise! What happened, did you get an earlier flight?”

Kisumi maneuvers Haru into a more-comfortable spot against his hip with one long arm as he easily holds his wineglass in his other hand. There’s something so – cute, and funny about seeing someone treat Haru almost like a basketball that Sousuke huffs a little laugh under his breath.

“Yeah! When we got off that Skype call the other day – well, I looked at my departure date in two weeks, and I thought about you all –” Here he ducks down to lay a kiss under Haru’s ear, and Sousuke takes a deep breath, unable to look away. “And I thought, no, I simply, fucking, _cannot_ wait another day. I turned my tests and papers in early and got in late last night. I went straight to Haru’s, I’m just happy he was home so I didn’t have to find a hostel at midnight. IF you guys even have ‘em in Tokyo that is.” He turns his head back into Haru’s neck, and just stays there, almost hiding. Haru lays a hand on one of Kisumi’s big knees.

“ _So_ … what’ve you guys been, ya know, doing? Playing Scrabble? Naked Twister?” Rin lifts an eyebrow, and Makoto puts a final touch on his concerned-parent persona when he hisses “ _Rin…_ ” getting a whack on the thigh in return.

Kisumi surprises Sousuke, holding back to let Haru answer. He has a look … Sousuke isn’t sure what it is, he doesn’t even know if he’s ever seen it on another person live and in front of him (?). But he thinks Kisumi’s looking at his little man with – adoration, and Sousuke can’t help it any more, reaching out to lay a discreet hand on Haru’s knee in his stupid leggings.

Haru flicks an unreadable look up to him, sliding his free hand down to hook their pinkies, putting their crazy trio in some ridiculous new Tarot card pose. “The Overcommitted Man,” maybe. “Nope, no nude board games, sorry Rin. I know I was sorta confusing on that subject with the whole strip poker thing the other night.” Rin laughs and Kisumi joins him.

“…you _would_ play strip poker, Haru,” Kisumi smirks.

“And it was a _REGULAR_ game, too. At a dinner party. That was the best part,” Sousuke says.

Makoto looks like he’s experiencing a flashback. “…please don’t remind me,” he pleads, and this time the laugh is actually shared around the whole circle, including Haru, and Sousuke is glad.

Rin’s doggedly sticking to the subject. “Really, though. You guys have this beautiful _thing,_ you get this total surprise meet-up last night – God, I have chills –” He holds his bare arms out for their inspection. “And you _still_ don’t screw?? Wow. I don’t get it. Are you saving yourself for marriage?” He leans over to whack Haru this time but can’t make the distance, hitting Sousuke instead. Sousuke hits him back.

“ _Jesus,_ Rin!” Haru complains. “People can hang out and NOT screw. I know it’s unbelievable but it’s true. We had a bath and got coffee and hit the thrift store. Talked. I _did_ have to keep beating people off him who were sure he was famous, which took a good couple hours on its own.” It’s a willfully good-natured little spiel, but Sousuke senses an edge of frustration in his voice.

“Well hell, I had to keep beating you off of _me_ when we hung out, so I’m sorta impressed at your self-control, Haru,” Rin says.

“Ican’t believe you could hold yourself back, sleeping in his bed, _bathing_ with him,” Sousuke says quietly to Kisumi, looking down as he gently plays with Haru’s hand, curling his narrow fingers into his palm and extending them until Haru finally pulls it back. He’s staring at Sousuke in warning as he glances back up, eyes narrow in the way that always means danger.

“…well, we decided to wait before we did anything.” Kisumi looks at them with a wide-open gaze. “I’ve done a lot of stuff – I mean, a _LOT-_ a lot of stuff. With a lot of people. And I realized Haru was different.” He turns the open gaze down on Haru who – surprisingly – looks up to meet it, face carefully neutral.                                                                                                                                                            

“I realized he was special, I didn’t wanna fuck that up with all the stuff I usually do. So I just wanna hang out with him this week instead.”

“That’s a really good idea, Kisumi,” Makoto says quietly, and Sousuke isn’t sure if it is or not, isn’t really sure what the hell this all means.

Kisumi just smiles back at Makoto, a closed smile, blinking at him for a minute. They let him. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I knew you guys wouldn’t give a damn about the amateur little stuff I’ve done, given everything.” He puts his mostly-full wineglass on the table and turns to face Rin and Makoto, and Sousuke watches in fascination as his perfect cheekbones pink. “Makoto, Rin, you guys are so awesome, I have to tell you what an honor it is to be sitting here with you. It’s so tacky to be someone’s ‘Number One Fan’ but shit, if you guys have one, I may be it.”

“Thank you, Kisumi,” Makoto says.

Rin does him one better. “Hey, we’ll sign the body part of your choice! Makes a great tattoo,” he suggests, giving Kisumi a big obnoxious wink, and getting a pleased laugh back.

Then Kisumi gets a considering look, leaning forward and snagging one of the energy drinks. _Aha, kid doesn’t like wine after all,_ Sousuke thinks smugly.

“You know, I don’t mean to sound like a total creeper. But it really is a shame you guys, uh, retired. You’re so damn good at it!” He cracks the can and takes a long swallow. “Hey, if you ever wanted a, let’s say, ‘creative outlet’ again, I could set a blog up for you where you could post your videos. You’d be surprised how porn-friendly tumblr is. It’s crazy.”

Sousuke glances curiously over, but Rin’s shaking his head and smiling. It’s a real smile, although it’s more bittersweet than amused. Makoto, on the other hand, looks back seriously.

“…we won’t be doing that again,” Makoto starts, his voice tight, but Rin’s reaching up to pat the big man’s wrist where it hangs over his shoulder.

“Nah, thanks but no thanks, kid. We’re old and grizzled. Gotta back off and let some new upstarts have their 15 minutes of fame.”

Sousuke’s mouth takes over then, like it seems to want to keep doing today. “Hey. Speak for yourself about ‘old and grizzled.’ Me and Haru could see some of that action if you guys aren’t interested.”

“…what,” Haru says in his most-perfect deadpan.

“Oooh, _Sousuke!_ ” Rin coos. “Are you really getting into a porn throwdown with _us_?”

“You fucking better believe it,” Sousuke says with conviction, a playful little flicker dancing in his chest and growing as he goes on. Sure, it’s crazy. But so’s writing gay romance novels for a living, and what’s he working so hard on this perfect body for, anyway? He – _and_ Haru – may as well have some fun, put all their group’s collective expertise to use. Sort of as a hobby. “Kisumi, hook us up. It’ll be me and Haru, we could film here, maybe in the pool too if I slip management a few thousand extra yen each month.” He grins down at Haru, who’s now wearing his most-perfect deadpan too. “Hey, we could do it so you can’t even see our faces. Though that seems like a damn shame.”

“Yeah…! Oh, people would _definitely_ be interested in _that,”_ Kisumi enthuses. “Oh, man. We could call it _Beauty and the Beast._ Holy _shit._ ”

Kisumi and Rin crack up at that while Sousuke mock-threatens “You’d LIKE that, wouldn’t you, you little prick,” when there’s a squeeze on his hand so hard, he hisses in surprised pain. Kisumi does the same as Haru clamps down on _his_ hand.

“Oh, no, no, _no._ Over my dead, _naked_ body,” Haru says, voice Arctic.

“People’d be interested in that too,” Rin says helpfully.

Kisumi pulls his hand free with difficulty, laying it on Haru’s upper thigh. “Hey, man! We can keep this loose! _I’m_ up for it if Haru’s gonna be a spoilsport and say no,” he laughs to Sousuke –

“Excuse me,” Haru blurts suddenly, shooting off the couch so fast it’s like he’s spring-loaded. Kisumi falls into the sudden vacuum and ends up in Sousuke’s lap. They’re tangled in each other so thoroughly for long enough, Sousuke just gets a faceful of fluffy pink curls and a sharp elbow in his stomach, and hears Makoto call “Haru – !” in alarm. Then he manages to shove Kisumi off him and struggle off the couch.

“What happened?” he fires to the other couch, where Rin sits looking dumbfounded and Makoto stands beside him, hands in fists, staring angrily towards the front door.

“Haru’s gone,” Makoto sighs.

***

hee hee I AM A BAD PERSON…but you all knew that, so we should be cool ;P. This is such a hot mess of a chapter, and for that I’m sorry to anyone who was looking for fluff (or even clarity lol), ‘cause you deserve that! But as much as I sorta longed to do that, I knew it wouldn’t work. This is a group that has just come to a nice tentative peace agreement about expectations and goals, but they’re still a long way from settled – and then we get dear Kisumi skydiving in.

I guess Haru’s looking around the room, at the neverending parade of smut and personal embarrassment and lack of privacy, not to mention all the required sharing, and wondering, “Is this really for me?” In not so many words. ‘Cause this is Haru.

But hey. How ‘bout that (Rin)SouMako? ;)


	35. A new hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO DIDDLY-DARN-DELIGHTED to be back with you all. Best. Readers. Ever <3

Before we dive back into the brotastic-action (…brotaction?) I’d love to share some amazing art with you. I WANNA PAY THESE LOVELY TALENTED PEOPLE.

[Irish_Cupcake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Irish_Cupcake/pseuds/Irish_Cupcake) has done a freaking [Haru gallery](http://maybeillride-changemylife.tumblr.com/post/126971744004/more-quirky-and-amazing-fanart-by-the-lovely) – we get cute winter Haru, sleeping Haru, breakdancing Haru, cool-cat sunglasses Haru, and more.

[Eristastic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eristastic) was kind enough to take time from her own fic empire and turn her character-design eye on Haru, and her [harem-pants and sleep-shirt versions](http://eristastic.tumblr.com/post/125583356882/ive-been-reading-maybeillride-changemylifes-fic) are gorgeous.

…aaand finally I made the questionable decision to start arting this thing too. Have [Kisumi and Haru out shopping](http://maybeillride-changemylife.tumblr.com/post/126197092219/haru-out-thrift-store-shopping-with-the-bae-from). If you dare ;)

***

“Oh my God. Oh my God, I am SUCH a fucking idiot,” Kisumi blurts, stalled out where he scrambled up from the couch like Sousuke and is standing staring vacantly at the door, also like Sousuke. The look on his face sort of breaks Makoto’s heart, this _sadness_ and fear like someone who’s come home to find his beloved dog has run away. Or, since this is Haru, his cat.

“Yes, you sort of are, Kisumi,” Makoto says suddenly, though he willfully keeps his voice soft. Because this poor enthusiastic kid doesn’t deserve a lecture when clearly they _all –_ even Makoto – do.

Rin is squeezing his arm instantly. His voice is just as soft but edged with a warning bite. “Mako. Really?”

Makoto sends a look to him – _trust me –_ and frees his arm so he can step into Kisumi’s circle of misery so strong, he can practically taste it.

“You sort of are, but then again we are too,” he goes on, reaching down to touch Kisumi’s hand where it dangles limp and useless at his side. Kisumi’s violet eyes don’t stray a millimeter from the front door. “We all got out of hand. Sousuke, you sure didn’t waste any time flirting with Haru’s boyfriend, here.”

“Uh, I think you were in the room when Haru made his little ‘dawning of the Age of Aquarius’ freelove speech. I assumed it was fine,” Sousuke throws back. But his voice is oddly colorless. While he’s at least able to turn and make eye contact with Makoto, his face is just as far-away as Kisumi’s. And while the younger man looks bereft, Sousuke’s drawn and still. Like he’s busily going back over some kind of mental tape to see just where he may have gone wrong.

“Right? Holy fuck, Mako. You aren’t gonna hold His Highness responsible for any of this??” Rin forces out an angry breath and strides off to the kitchen, which is so very Rin – he can never keep still in an argument – and yanks the fridge open. Makoto sighs and waits, and as expected Rin heaves the door shut a few seconds later and paces back emptyhanded.

Makoto takes a deep breath, stepping up on the edge of a sudden moment – he doesn’t know _how_ he knows his next words are gonna matter, just that he’s arrived at a cliff.

Hold back, and he turns around and retreats to safety and maybe … maybe he and Rin go off on their own and forget this whole messy thing ever happened, all these ridiculous complications. It’s not like they weren’t happy together, after all, especially as they head into their next chapter. Hey, they could even hook up with these guys from time to time, just for fun. Because clearly anything beyond that is … a total mess.

Say what is on his tongue, now, and he jumps off and careens into space and God only knows where they all land.

His heart speeds.

Makoto grabs Rin’s eyes, with as much focus in his own as he can, watches as his man’s indescribably lovely face sorta _slackens,_ his mouth falling into an “O” Makoto wishes the moment were right to laugh at. He turns to Sousuke, beams the same look at the big man’s distant teals, sharpens and strengthens it. Sousuke’s eyes are widening too as Makoto finally, finally turns a much softer face to Kisumi.

“…Makoto?” their “little” New Yorker says, hesitantly.

“Kisumi,” he suddenly finds himself _laughing_ back, and the pretty guy recoils a little, apparently suspicious of being made fun of. Makoto squints at him and squeezes his hand.

“ _Sousuke_ went full-horndog here. But he somehow figured out how to let go and let Haru be free, and I almost can’t believe that.

“My Rin, well, basically has no class –"

Rin interrupts him as he’s just getting going. He doesn’t look the least offended. “Hey, you’re the one dating me…”

“Like I was SAYING, he basically has no class,” Makoto reiterates, and now he’s grinning, he doesn’t mean to but his face is just sorta doing its own thing. “But hey, is he good at breaking the ice or what?

“And you, Kisumi, I think you stepped over some lines too. But shit, that’s what friends do when they get together. When they’re just _happy_ together and having a good time.”

Kisumi gives him these melting amethyst eyes so grateful it’s almost pathetic, but Makoto’s just glad Kisumi gets him, gets what Makoto means about all of them: they _were_ having a good time before Haru made his flying leap out of there, and that’s good, that’s _important._ That’s the foundation they can use to try to build this crazy thing.

He pauses to look around at them again, and he hangs onto his smile, but he lets himself slip into his “big brother” voice. Something that comes to him as naturally as … well, smiling. That he wishes he got to do more often, somehow.

“Haru, now.”

“Yes, _Haru,_ ” Rin’s interrupting again, exasperated, like they’re _finally_ getting to the part of the story he was waiting for. Sousuke snorts.

“Haru’s never found anything he can’t run away from,” the bigger man rumbles darkly. Makoto nods at Sousuke in a sort of neutral agreement, because really, how can Makoto make a sweeping assumption like that about a man he’s just met, in the grand scheme of things? But even so, he still can’t shake this uncanny sensation that he _knows_ Haru, that everything he needs to understand him is painted on his face, threaded through his voice.

“I get the sense Haru doesn’t know HOW to deal with all this,” Makoto confirms, and that’s exactly it, that’s who this beautiful little man is. He’s such a contradiction, so brave to yank them all together like this when he’s never had a relationship in his life, to fucking lay himself out for a foursome when he could probably count his sexual experiences on one hand, but so … fragile. So binary? Telling him and Sousuke that he _loved_ them the first night he had them at his place together; that isn’t something a person says when they’re following a rational plan.

“I’m the one,” Kisumi says. He’s staring at Makoto, eyes hard. “I’m the fuckup who came in and ruined the nice thing you all had going. What the hell is a ‘fivesome’ anyway?? Stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“That’s bullshit,” Makoto shoots back. “You know what Haru did _right_ in all this? He didn’t say no. he didn’t automatically assume something wasn’t gonna work without trying it first. I don’t know how _smart_ that is. But it was brave.” He pauses to sweep his eyes around them again.

“And now it’s up to us to go find him so we can fix this.”

Sousuke moves much faster than Makoto was expecting, not giving his words a second’s thought, heading immediately for the little bureau in the foyer and snatching up his keys from a little dish. “Let’s go. Makoto, you drive your car and we can each go to half of his usual places.”

“I’ll stay here with Kisumi and keep the poor guy company,” Rin insists, and Makoto is almost amused at the “team spirit” they have together, tipping over into full-on amused to see Kisumi blush at the offer. Even if he still looks miserable. It’s a start.

“That OK with you, Kisumi?” Makoto confirms, just to be sure. What a weird situation to fall into, basically abandoned by your lover in a strange apartment in a totally foreign city. At least he speaks the language.

Kisumi nods, looking down at his feet. “Yeah. Just find him. And bring him back. Please.”

*

The line on the bottom of the pool spools by under Haru, like lines on the highway, churning along, lap after lap after lap. But unlike highway lines, the boring sight does absolutely nothing to calm him down. It’s perverse – it’s like, the more laps he adds on without a pause to even get his breath, the harder he tries to block everything out but the long black strip, the more … unsettled he gets.

 _…what the fuck did I do. What the_ fuck _did I just do,_ his brain repeats the mantra that’s locked it in a weird state the past hour or so, not really captivity because he doesn’t feel _trapped,_ really.

It’s anticipation, that’s what he feels.

It’s that breathless moment, when the cannon makes that hollow _chuff –_ and the whole crowd follows the track of the firework up and up and up, waiting for it to pop itself across the sky. His body knows something’s coming. His brain knows something’s coming. Something’s on its way that’s gonna explode and change his whole landscape, and he doesn’t know when it’ll be here, so he pushes his body forward in the meantime.

Churn. Flip. Launch. Kick. Repeat. Pure muscle memory, mindless, just the beating of that phrase.

Cause really, what the fuck _did_ he do? He stormed out of Sou’s like a little kid, _that’s_ what he did. The going stereotype would call him a “little _girl_ ” but Haru knows better. At least little girls can use their words. Most of the time, anyway. A shit-ton better than stupid, stupid little boys.

He knows immediately when the cramp sets into his left calf – one second his legs are doing the oddly graceful dance of the flutter kick, rocking him back and forth from his hips more violently than usual. The next, he’s choking on a mouthful of water as he gasps at the sudden knife in his leg. He tips up, hacking away, awkwardly sculling with his hands to keep him from sinking.

Sousuke is standing at the end of the pool, watching him.

The sight is so surprising – even as his body clearly somehow expected him – he forgets to cough and just stares dumbly up at him, Sou gazing solemnly down. It’s almost funny how _tall_ he is from up there; they’ve never been in this position before, Haru way down in the pool and Sou so big and impressive above him, like he’s Haru’s coach. Authoritative. Folding his arms on his chest like Haru just isn’t getting something no matter how often Sou has him repeat it.

Haru’s somehow glad when Sou is the one to talk first, breaking this charged silence even as the other lunchtime swimmers keep up their laps around him like there’s nothing at all weird going on.

“…Haru,” he starts. “So you’re swimming after all. I should’ve come here first-thing.” A smile ghosts across his face and then he’s serious again. Haru sweeps forward to the wall, letting his legs trail behind him, the cramping leg past shouting and now screaming.

When he’s at the wall, he finds he can’t even answer Sou. It’s mostly the cramp, which has stolen most of his coherent thought. But it’s also just … Sou. What can he say to that? How can he answer this man who’s apparently been trolling his fucking _neighborhood_ looking for him, like he’s a lost kid? Confirming his very own self-assessment?

Hurrying, maybe even worrying, when Haru could’ve cut this whole thing off by just getting his ass back there. By being brave.

Sou has crouched down to meet him at the edge, handsome and quiet, and he puts a hand out. “Can I help you up?”

Haru takes it without hesitation, and as the strong fingers close around his he can suddenly speak.

“Thanks. I … my calf is cramping pretty bad.”

Sou’s mouth pinches into a grimace and he yanks Haru out so fast he was in the pool one second and the next, he’s standing awkwardly on the pool deck on his good leg, in Sou’s arms.

“Now you’re all wet,” Haru says, like he’s auditioning for the role of Ditzy Bimbo #2. Sou’s arms tighten.

“You think I give a fuck about that?” he asks quietly, and no, Haru guesses he doesn’t. Then a fresh twist of pain makes him gasp and just as fast as Sou got him out of the pool, he ducks down and swoops Haru up into his arms, cradling him like a baby. Like he doesn’t weigh a thing when Haru knows very well that’s not true.

“Be careful! Your shoulder – !” he whispers, and clutches around Sou’s broad neck and good shoulder as tightly as he can, to take the majority of the weight.

“ _When_ are you gonna stop worrying about that…?” Sou huffs back, walking them towards the men’s locker room. Three swimmers have stopped at the wall to openly stare as they pass; Haru thinks he catches a woman sigh “…have you _ever_ seen something so romantic –" before the door bangs shut.

Sou brings him immediately to a bench, easing him down with ridiculous care, and Haru would make fun if his head wasn’t swimming. Sou kneels in front of him and his hands are … the gentlest Haru’s ever felt them, resting Haru’s left foot on his shoulder as he carefully massages his calf. Haru has to duck his head forward, hissing through his teeth. Slowly, slowly, the edge of his pain is dulled, and Sou pulls his foot flat on his chest, leaning in to stretch his calf.

“So,” he manages through gritted teeth. Sou flicks his eyes up. “ _Have_ you ever seen something so romantic? I’m not sure I have.”

“You’re hopeless,” Sou murmurs, which is so close to Haru’s opinion again it’s almost eerie, but he’s smiling, this almost absentminded smile like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. Haru swallows, breathes through the stretch.

Sou smooths his hands in this hypnotic pattern, down his shin, around his knee, up his thigh (over his jammers) and back, around and around. It’s so distracting and the empty locker room is so quiet, Haru’s startled when Sou speaks again.

“I went to your apartment before this. Got your super to let me in by saying there was an emergency.” Haru blinks at him, wide-eyed, totally forgetting the circuit of his gentle hands. He’s about to make a protest about privacy but no coherent words come to mind.

“Part of me was happy you weren’t there, ‘cause hey, at least you weren’t in some comatose stupor. But I was mostly just worried, hoping Makoto was having better luck at the coffeeshop or the thrift store.” Sou lowers his leg to the floor and leans in, wrapping his arms around the small of Haru’s back and searching his face. But Haru can still only blink back, the thought of these two men  _canvassing the neighborhood_ like he’s a runaway teenager too much to digest.

“Haru, I was worried … and I was _lonely._ I … you know what, best I can describe it, is déjà vu.”

Haru’s voice suddenly returns. Maybe it’s simple curiosity; maybe it’s something else. “…déjà vu?”

He watches Sou’s prominent Adam’s apple bob. “I spent most my time growing up pretty fucking lonely, Haru. You know, I didn’t have a single decent friend until Sei, no one worth keeping in touch with, until Sei – and that was college, for fuck’s sake. I think I just … didn’t see the point. Nobody was like me, nobody knew the same kind of stuff I did. I was fine by myself.” He pauses. “By the time I realized I was wrong, I was _way_ too old to change.

“But … then, I met you.”

This time, Haru’s snark reflexes are on point and he’s firing back without a thought, half-playful and half-acidic. “Yamazaki Sousuke, did I show you what love is??”

And Sou doesn’t scoff, doesn’t swear, doesn’t return to his favorite theme when they met and lecture him about taking things seriously.

He just leans in, cups the back of his head with one splayed hand, tilts his face in to kiss him … and Haru’s dumbfounded, it’s the most-tender kiss Sou has ever given him, the most-tender kiss he’s ever received in his life. And he has no logical way to explain it even if he wanted to; it’s like _words_ are passing between their lips, even as Sou moves against him carefully. It’s like Sou’s care is telling Haru _you are precious;_ and _it’s okay, it doesn’t matter how much you fuck up;_ and _yes, you silly man, you DID show me what love is._

Haru’s crying when Sou finally backs away, tears that just keep seeping loosely down his cheeks like he’s lost control of his own body. Which, he guesses he has. Sou has this open, wondering look, the same one he wore after their first disastrous time sleeping together when he finally took Haru in hand and made things right. It’s Haru’s turn to blink through his own feelings of déjà vu, bringing his hands up to cup Sou’s narrow cheeks.

“…thanks. That. That was the best kiss I’ve ever had.”

Sou smiles, slow and crooked. “Not a lot of competition. Yet.”

*

“…so! Pretty awesome, huh?” Rin grins over his shoulder at Kisumi, as they lean side by side against the balcony railing. “First time I saw this, I just kept swearing. It’s like it broke my brain.”

“You don’t get a view like this except in movies,” Kisumi says, faintly. He fucking _worships_ movies and his brain keeps comparing the sight below to scene after scene from J-horror to yakuza like some half-assed Google. Rin is nice, too, not seeming to mind his almost-total lack of enthusiasm and just letting him be quiet, subdued.

“Ugh, that is too right. It’s what you can get for the right price, I guess! It’s a total new world to me, I’ll fucking tell you what.” The gorgeous man widens his eyes like he’s sharing a secret and Kisumi can’t help it, he’s actually smiling back. Rin is so _good_ at this, he should work at a hospital, cheering up kids with cancer or something. If they’d let him in with his resume, that is.

“Let’s just say, me and my mom and little sister did _not_ have a view like this growing up in Iwatobi.”

“God, we got close in my family. We have a condo in uptown Manhattan.” He suddenly connects their comments, realizes how shitty and stuck-up it must make him sound. To a guy who was working in the porn business to pay his bills, no less. He’s stuttering to correct himself. “Oh! I – I’m so sorry, God, I’m such a dick … we didn’t have a view like _this._ This is totally insane.”

Rin’s eyes squint warmly – and he grins, like he’s ready to bust into real laughter. He pats Kisumi’s wrists where they droop limply over the railing. “Honey, you’re no dick. You may be a lot of things, but I can tell ‘dick’ isn’t one of ‘em.”

“How do you know without even taking me for a test-drive?” Kisumi shoots neatly back – pure muscle memory, only his tongue instead of his wrists or thighs or ankles. His stomach drops to street-level in an instant.

Rin must see it, grabbing his hand – gently – and leading him back inside, leaving the sliding door open to the perfect fall day. They pass back through Sousuke’s mega-bedroom, and Kisumi tries, tries not to think about everything that goes on in here, all the positions and the scenarios and the sounds. Tries not to insert himself into those (quadratic) equations on that parking-lot-sized bed.

But Rin’s taking them out into the little hall and back into Sousuke’s man-cave, the very scene of his first meeting with Haru’s three new b.f.’s. It’s cute, how he plunks Kisumi into the giant couch in front of the giant TV, and Kisumi just assumes they’re gonna pass this terrible _waiting_ time watching a movie. Maybe playing a game. Kisumi can’t say he minds. Turning his brain off here – stopping himself from thinking, about his man, about whether he’ll forgive him, about all the things Kisumi did to land them in this spot – sounds pretty fucking great.

Rin’s collapsing into the couch right next to him then, like they’re best buds instead of a totally hot porn star and a drooling fanboy, and instead of reaching for the remote he’s digging a smartphone out of his pocket.

“I gotta catch you up on some stuff,” Rin says, clicking speedily over to his galleries and finding a video. He’s smirking as he presses play. “Observe.”

Kisumi leans in, mostly just to be polite, but the sight of a sleeping Tachibana Makoto immediately transfixes him.

He’s sprawled out on his back on a twin bed – so, not here at Sousuke’s Pleasuredome – and snoring away, lost to the world. There’s just something unfair that this is a man who can sound like a rusty chainsaw and still project “total man-candy.” The camera – obviously manned by Rin – shakes as he stifles a laugh.

Then the cinematographer comes in for an extreme closeup as another hand (Rin’s) creeps in holding an eyeliner, and with surprising skill gives Makoto pointy brows, a triangle nose, whiskers on both cheeks. He pulls back to admire the adorable catface he’s made, then the picture shakes queasily again as Rin chokes back another laugh and nudges Makoto’s shoulder.

“Mako – ! You overslept, you gotta go right to work,” video-Rin says urgently, and it’s almost scary how fast the big man _pops_ up like it isn’t the first time this has happened. The video ends.

“Ugh…! Just when things were getting good!” Kisumi demands. “Come on, what happened? Did he figure it out?”

“Oh … eventually,” Rin says airily. “When he sat in the makeup chair for his shoot and Emiko and Miri stopped laughing long enough to turn him to the mirror. He apparently couldn’t figure out why people were meowing at him his whole way in.” He snorts. “Some little boy apparently kept screaming ‘Totoro!!’ on the street and bear-hugged his legs until his mom was able to pry him off.”

Kisumi feels a little ill, he’s laughing so hard, doing the little asthmatic wheeze he can’t stand but somehow not caring. Rin isn’t rushing him at all, letting him get it out and occasionally (rhetorically) going “Right? Right?” at him.

“Ohhh … oh, that was fucking awesome,” he can finally say, and like Rin was waiting for his cue, he flicks over to another one, smirking as he starts it.

Kisumi starts to wonder if Rin has a fetish for filming his guys sleeping. This time they’re in Sousuke’s palatial bedroom, the windows outside dark as the camera creeps up to the bed. Sousuke is stretched out on his back, apparently comfortable, sleeping soundly…

…even with Haru nestled in on top of him, arms crossed on his chest and face tucked inside. It’s so shameless, the way Haru’s using him as a human mattress, and Kisumi recalls how he did the exact same thing to Haru _this morning._ He stares down at the increasingly-familiar lines of Haru’s bedhead, his giant t-shirt, the jammers peeking out. He’s drawn to Sousuke’s face, too: it’s at total peace. You’d never know he’s wearing a dude.

Apparently Rin was in a more pensive and less-giggly mood that day, the view pretty much steady as a rock – until Rin unexpectedly creeps into frame and crawls onto the bed.

“Ha! So Makoto was filming, huh.” He pauses then gives Rin a nice neutral slap on the knee. “Sorry, Rin. You make him look like Stanley Kubrick.”

“Shhh!” Rin whispers feverishly, and Kisumi smiles. “You’ll miss the best part!”

“The best part” is apparently Rin straight-up _pouncing_ on Haru on Sousuke, yelling “Haru Sandwich!!” like a nervous skydiver who blanks on “Geronimo.” Haru squeaks and Sousuke rumbles something and Rin is laughing and Haru’s wriggling around like an eel to face Rin and somehow, the whole chaotic mess morphs into an extremely intense makeout session. Makoto is suspiciously faithful to the filming – you’d think he was getting paid – as Rin and Haru shift together. As Sousuke gets long arms up around Rin’s back, making an _actual_ Haru Sandwich. Or … a calzone, maybe. Kisumi’s mouth goes dry.

“Shit!” Rin fumbles at the screen and the action stops – and Kisumi is surprised at his own disappointment, though he stays quiet so he doesn’t look like any more of a sad pervert than he already is. “I’m sorry, I meant to stop before … _that._ ”

“You guys do that kinda thing a lot, then?” Kisumi asks, and he wants to die laughing at his blasé “so how long have you been golfing?” country-club voice, but whatd’ya know: he’s curious. He’s _been_ curious since that Skype call. He has no idea how all this is supposed to work. What are the rules? _Are_ there any? They’re four fine guys holed up together in a penthouse apartment, none of ‘em even having to leave in the morning for a job.

How are they not screwing _all the time?_

Rin’s pulled his legs up to sit sideways on the couch, and his narrowed eyes and tilted smile somehow say he knows exactly what Kisumi was just thinking.

“You know what’s weird? When we started this, I thought there’d be a lot more sex. _Assumed_ it. I think part of me thought that was the whole point of this setup. Why the fuck else would you _willingly_ submit yourself to sharing a bathroom with three other guys?”

A totally unexpected laugh pops out of Kisumi and Rin grins back. “Wait, so you _aren’t_ all fucking 24-7? Forget it, I’m not interested. Thanks anyway,” Kisumi says apologetically and starts to get up.

“ _Oh_ no you don’t,” Rin teases, getting a hold of him by the back pocket of his jeans and yanking him back down, where he falls perfectly into Rin’s waiting lap like they rehearsed it. Rin casually wraps his arms around him and Kisumi blinks stupidly up from where he’s landed on Rin’s shoulder.

“…hi,” Rin smiles down.

“…hi,” Kisumi says hesitantly. He’s almost sure Rin can see his pulse jumping in his throat, running away like a techno beat.

But Rin doesn’t put any moves on him, just eases down to lay his cheek in Kisumi’s hair, and Kisumi’s in a swirl of confusion, but the warm weight of Rin’s head is comforting somehow. Rin must think so too, letting out a little sigh above him.

“…see, _this_ is what I mean,” Rin finally says after a while, and Kisumi can tell he’s still smiling. “There’s a _lot_ more of just ‘this.’ And stupid conversations about nothing. And alpha-male cook-offs. And times when we laugh so hard Haru starts doing this _heh-heh-heh_ thing like a creepy old man.”

“Oh my God, I know! I love when he does that!!” bursts out of Kisumi like they’re in the lobby after a movie comparing notes. “Oh my God you gotta tell me, is Sousuke secretly a dork under that yandere cover??”

“He is KING of the Dorks,” Rin says ponderously – in _perfect_ English.

“Nice,” Kisumi fires back in English. “Why does that not surprise me?”

He lets Rin get through a round of snickering (a _huh-huh-huh_ goofy laugh he’s starting to love that’s kissing-cousin to Haru’s), and wriggles them back into the couch so he can see Rin better, before asking what he’s been dying to know.

“So … and how about Makoto?” he starts, casually, switching back to Japanese. “There’s no way he’s as nice as that. Not possible.” He slaps Rin’s thigh like it just came to him. “Wait, I got it. Serial killer.”

Rin sighs again, leaning his head on Kisumi’s shoulder this time. This one is a contented sigh, sorta the sigh at the end of a shitty day when you get home and you can slide your shoes off and just be yourself. Kisumi sits, silently enjoying the absolutely improbable feeling of one of his idols wrapped around him so comfortably, and thinks for a moment about that sigh.

 _That_ is the sigh of happiness. And he imagines what it would be like if he and Haru could have that, Kisumi coming home after a long day of classes and cultural whiplash, toeing off his Converse and finding Haru … in the kitchen, maybe, whipping up something amazing.

Kissing the top of his head and getting a (fond) little grumble back.

…and – here in Rin’s kind hug – Kisumi feels something twist and click into place. It’s doing a puzzle and staring and staring at a piece then realizing how to turn it to finish the scene.

His mind quickly fills in the rest of his “ideal homecoming” fantasy:

Sousuke, cooking peacefully with Haru in his spacious kitchen after they’ve spent a long day writing together. Shooting Kisumi a dangerous look over a massive shoulder as he slaps the big man’s toned ass.

Makoto, stretched on the couch in the living room reading – Kisumi doesn’t know why that’s where he’d be, he just feels it – greeting him in that sweet voice.

And Rin, sauntering his sexy, snarky ass out from the shower, maybe, turban on his head and towel around his hips, shuffling over to give him a kiss.

…damn, god _damn,_ does he want all that.

“…you’re not even gonna ask me about Makoto’s secret torture dungeon?” Rin asks him plaintively, and Kisumi snorts, shaking his head in delight. He – tentatively – lays a hand on Rin’s knee in his black skinny jeans, and Rin lets him.

“Nope. That’s what’s funny. What you see is what you get with Mako. Our other guys may be just as ‘good,’ but you really will never meet a genuinely ‘nicer’ man than Tachibana Makoto.” Rin’s voice thickens on his boyfriend’s name and Kisumi turns his eyes aside discreetly, knowing this worldly-wise ex-porn star has just choked up. Kisumi gets it. Here he is, alone with this beautiful man, but his usual casual-fuck m.o. is nowhere to be found.

No, something about all the possibilities ahead of him … Kisumi’s suddenly on the edge of crying, too.

They’re still just sitting there, wrapped up in each other in the quiet peace of the dim entertainment room, when there’s an echoing _snick_ at the front door.

Then: “…he’s gonna be so relieved to see you, Haru. Do you know that was his only wish as we were leaving? That we ‘find you and bring you back?’”    

Makoto. Speak of the devil, ask and ye shall receive; fantasy is colliding with reality in a moment so surreal, Kisumi can’t move. Rin isn’t in any hurry, anyway, lifting his head lazily from Kisumi’s shoulder with a slow, conspiratorial smile.

“Eh, don’t sweat it, kid. They know we’re here. Let ‘em come to you for a change.”

So he stays put, his heart ramping up again after this funny lull Rin had him in, as a chaos of footsteps shuffles closer, entering the hall.

“Thousand-yen says they’re screwing.” Sousuke’s voice, right outside the door, and the moody fucker somehow manages to sound bored.

“…no, doesn’t look like it,” Makoto says behind where they’re slouched into the couch, and then there they are, standing in front of the coffee table like they never left, Makoto and Sousuke bookending Haru.

…Haru, who immediately drops to his knees at the table before him and Rin, and Kisumi feels his face heat up at the totally unnecessary sight. Haru doesn’t need to do this for _him._ Haru doesn’t need to wear such an embarrassed and sorry expression for _him,_ to lean in so seriously like he’s proposing marriage or some other major-life-event thing.

“Kisumi,” he says, voice tight. “That was unforgivable of me to leave you like that. I was out of my fucking mind.” He stops. “I’m so sorry.”

“You did it!” Rin crows from where he’s still using Kisumi’s shoulder as a pillow, before Kisumi can even dream up a reply. Haru squints over at Rin like he’s bothering to see him for the first time. “It’s a miracle! You’re a real boy after all, Pinocchio!”

“I see you’ve been taking good care of our guest,” Haru shoots back.

“The best.”

“Okay, okay, hold on,” Kisumi is finally able to get out. He gently oozes out of Rin’s cuddle and clears the coffee table in a single giant step, and dimly feels Makoto and Sousuke somehow both sending them the same little smile as he snatches Haru under the arms. He has Haru standing before the little guy really even knows what happened, judging by his blank expression, and then he has him dipped in his arms like he’s the sailor and Haru’s the nurse in that old black and white photo from World War II.

He kisses the hell out of Haru just like that pic, too.

Rin’s applauding when he finally brings them back up, and Sousuke’s smirking, and Haru is sunburn-red. And Kisumi can’t keep his hands away now that he finally has him, turning Haru gently in his arms so he can face everyone too, but pulling him snugly against his front. He almost can’t believe that Haru doesn’t try to leave.

And somehow, they all face Makoto, like they know it’s his role to bookend this … “trial” they went through. Like he knows what’s going on here in a way they only have pieces of.

Makoto doesn’t speak for a long beat, looking down at his feet like he’s gathering his thoughts. When he finally looks up, he lays his eyes carefully around their circle again, with intent, only gentler than last time. They come to rest on Haru.

“Haru,” he begins. “I was really, really worried when I couldn’t find you. When Sousuke texted from the pool, that you were OK, I couldn’t believe how relieved I was. It didn’t make sense, it’s not like anything bad was gonna happen to you. But sense didn’t have anything to do with it.” Kisumi watches his soft eyes flicker sharp and despite Rin’s claims about him earlier, he finds himself almost intimidated.

“Haru, you can’t just pick up and run when you don’t like what’s happening. You have to _talk_ to us!”

Haru shifts restlessly, and Kisumi tries to let him go, but he just pulls Kisumi’s arms back around himself, with a little glance up. Kisumi slowly lets out his breath.

Makoto moves then, too, sitting on the coffeetable; Sousuke quietly slides around and takes the couch next to Rin. And the seriousness in the room … it isn’t tense, it’s _in_ tense, the feeling in the air of something happening that has been a long time coming.

Makoto looks up, his face wide-open now. “I wish I could be like you, Haru. Be as _free_ as you. You don’t know how much that means to me – you’ve got me doing things I would never have done if I hadn’t met you.” He stops, looks pointedly over at Rin. Then this _smile_ grows across his face, wider and wider like he’s remembering a private joke.

“…what??” Rin snaps, out on the edge of the couch leaning on his knees. “What the fuck, Makoto?”

“So. Haru made a comment a while back, about feeling mostly screwed in the romance department. That’s why he wanted to be greedy and get us all together.”

Rin’s “duh”-face is hysterically funny, and Makoto apparently takes pity and finishes his mystery-point.

“I, on the other hand, have been totally fucking blessed in love.” He peels a hand from between Rin’s knees, lifts it to his mouth, and kisses the knuckles. Kisumi almost can’t believe his eyes, much less his ears. “But I don’t care. I think I’ve earned the right to be a little greedy, too. So I’m _keeping_ us all together.”

Eyes back to Haru. Challenge clear: in his raised eyebrows, knowing smile.

And now, _now,_ Haru’s gently disengaging, and Kisumi beats down his urge to latch on like the face-suckers in _Alien_ and never let him go. To his surprise, Haru just slides to the side, forming them into a rough circle in the suddenly quiet room, letting Kisumi rest an arm on his shoulder like it belongs there.

“I don’t think any of you need me saying this. But I’m gonna fucking say it anyway, so.” Haru heaves a shaky breath in, shoves it back out like it personally offended him. The differences between Makoto and Haru are jarring – Haru doesn’t look at them, fixating on the arty books on Sousuke’s coffee table.

“I have no idea how to be with someone. I don’t know how to share. I need _way_ more time alone than is probably good for me.” He reaches a quick hand up and scrubs across both eyes. “Fuck. I never learned how to be a normal human being.”

“No such thing,” Sousuke says with certainty. He’s leaning forward onto his knees too, a mirror-image of Rin.

“We’re _all_ on the fuck-up spectrum! Are you kidding?” Rin flips his head to Sousuke like they’re a couple of sports commentators doing a play-by-play. “Two washed-up porn actors, two loner porn-writers, and a…” He and Sousuke stare hard at Kisumi and he stares back, wondering what the fuck they’re gonna come up with and also needing to leave and open a window and … just scream. For a while.

“Little degenerate,” Sousuke finally decides.

“Hey!” Kisumi protests.

“ _Adorable_ little degenerate,” the giant dick amends, and that shouldn’t help, but magically, it does. He isn’t mad, anyway. He _is_ a degenerate. It’s a funny kind of relief that they’ve got him pegged.

And the balance of the circle tilts subtly back to Haru, who’s finally comfortable enough to meet their eyes.

“I’m yours. Even if this thing goes down in a spectacular blaze of glory. Even though it probably will.”

Rin respectfully waits a full five seconds before insisting on a group hug.

***

WELL, my lovelies, if you made it this far with me, congrats: we are officially in OT5 territory now *marching band* *fireworks*

I’m unreasonably fond of tidy conflict resolution in fic. If I could solve the issues in my own life with the talk-outs these dudes get into, I’d be an enlightened being. (Fic-rules. Can’t be helped.)

Dax, hope that meets your Human-Mattress needs.

[What that little kid saw](http://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/studioghibli/images/7/79/Bigguy.gif/revision/latest?cb=20121023030559) when he looked at CatMakoto.

[What Kisumi looked like kissing Haru](http://www.motherofcolor.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/famous-WWII-kiss-print.jpg) in Sou’s man-cave.


	36. The eternal rebirth of the Coffee God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO ao3 decided to do its occasional thing of not keeping special text, links, etc, so again we have a distinct lack of italics this time lol. but a million times more importantly, THANK YOU all for sticking with this crazy thing, esp through that long break. THis story wouldn't be any fun without you <3
> 
> ALSO: I forgot to give belated credit to the crazy-gifted and organized Eristastic who helped me work through ideas for this chap when I was struggling. You wanna make a writer happy, donate your time to their goofy unformed creations and they'll love you forever :)
> 
> ALSO ALSO: I forgot to thank the wonderful Blinc43 for pointing out that the summary for this thing has been ... a little obtuse to date lol (my words not hers :)). YES. If you're gonna write something, you may as well let people know what it is! So it was fun to go all back of the paperback style with this new one. Pls, if anyone has other critiques or suggestions I'm all ears.

Kisumi snores. Like, epic, Breathe-Right Nasal Strips-commercial levels of horrible, horrible snoring. And clearly it’s not a weight thing, given that Haru amused himself last night trying to pinch various parts of the kid’s anatomy. Before Kisumi was able to beat him off, Haru sampled a calf, thigh, both ass cheeks, and the spot under his runway cheekbones, and the only place he could get any grip was Kisumi’s ass. Two percent body fat, and he carries it all in a bubble butt on that damn beanpole of his. That Haru wouldn’t mind trying to pinch again.

He sighs, glancing over Kisumi’s profile at the speaker standing at his bedside. It’s just light enough to make out his Yoda alarm clock, the numbers in his belly glowing 5:05. He drops back to the pillow, curling tightly on his side. So Kisumi is a loud presence in his bed, sprawled in a giant horizontal jumping jack and taking up almost more space asleep than awake if that’s possible (leaving Haru curled like a housepet in the void between one arm and leg).

But Haru’s gotten used to all that over the past week. It isn’t Kisumi’s snoring or abysmal bed etiquette that’s keeping him up tonight.

Finally he gives up, hauling himself out of bed. Kisumi’s snuffles don’t even pause. It’s cold in the apartment away from their safe cocoon, and he slips on a kimono he found at the thrift store, this gloriously tacky thing with this hardcore ‘70s rainbow snaking all over it. And paper cranes flying around that. For extra fabulousness, presumably.

He leans against the counter, listening to the building hiss of the kettle. It’s funny how fast he’s gotten used to Kisumi’s complete takeover of his space, too. He’s using Haru’s dining table as a luggage rack, and his duffle bag looks a little like a loaded baked potato, a snarl of clothes exploding out. The two mismatched chairs are heaped with shopping bags and rolled poster tubes and what looks like a giant Pokémon plushie, spoils of Kisumi’s adventures this week. More clothes decorate the floor in total stinky unwashed chaos. Both of Haru’s bedside “tables” are overrun with travel books, twisted headphone cords, CDs, a few empty beer bottles. Haru missed college, but he’s finally getting the dorm room experience.

He catches the kettle before it whistles and pours it over Kisumi’s tea leaves, and then he has to just stop everything for a second as the fragrance hits him.

He cradles his Einstein mug in both hands, enjoying the heat, and breathes in the scent.

It’s cherries, God, it’s spring suddenly when even in Tokyo you can find the scent in the air, in the most unexpected places. It’s spring and Kisumi is here for good, to stay, and every breath in is intoxicating and somehow leaves Haru hopeful.

Oh my God I’m getting corny in my old age, he thinks.

In all the crap Kisumi’s vomited around, Haru can’t spy the one thing he was low-key looking for. He silently shuffles to what’s become Kisumi’s side of the bed, and finally spots his backpack, so overstuffed that first night the pins all over it were practically popping off, but now deflated and seemingly empty. Haru crouches and sneaks a hand inside. He finds the journal immediately.

He brings his tea and Kisumi’s journal back to bed with him and eases in, leaning back against the pillows.

“…why?” Kisumi suddenly asks, and Haru freezes, flooded with either fear or guilt. He looks down.

Kisumi’s face is open in sleep, mouth pulling down where his head sags to one side, hair falling over his eyes. On top of snoring, he’s a drooler too, which amuses Haru for reasons he can’t explain.

“Why, Haru?” he asks again. It’s a little creepy how clear his sleep-talk voice is, almost like they’re having a conversation, though like his face his voice is almost naked, with this total lack of self-consciousness.

Haru gently pats his shoulder with his free hand, even though he’s risking waking him. He just sounds so… plaintive.

“Because. Now shut up.”

He waits, curious, his heart beating a little too fast, as Kisumi’s silent for a few seconds. “The bathroom is unprotected,” he finally says in this know-it-all tone, then rolls away, taking the comforter with him. The snores start back up, softly.

Haru’s suddenly hit by the urge to send a group text to – what should he call them all? his boyfriends? His posse? His bitches? Rin would know, he thinks. Share the latest cute thing the kid said. Maybe add a photo of him sleeping.

He opens the journal instead. Kisumi hasn’t kept its existence a secret, exactly. Every night he’s come back to the apartment, no matter how clearly worn-out he is by whatever Rin or Makoto or Sou has done with him that day, he makes sure to do two things: share a bath with Haru as soon as he gets in, clinging to him almost absentmindedly like a freakishly overgrown koala, and scrawl in this journal as he lies on his stomach next to Haru in bed.

Haru’s been careful – almost bordering on seeming disinterest – to not pry into what Kisumi’s days-out with each guy have been like. He got a blizzard of hilariously oversharing texts on day one when Rin had him, but the rest of the week has been quiet. Curiously, Kisumi has offered almost nothing, and Haru doesn’t know why. Is he embarrassed about the fun he’s had with these other guys, the way he’s clicked with them, the way they’ve squired him around Tokyo like the tour guides of his dreams? Have they done other things with him – taken him back to Rin’s or Mako’s or the penthouse, run a hand through his curls, cupped the curve of his ass and pulled him down to the couch or the bed?

Haru wouldn’t be surprised, much less blame him. From all Haru knows about him, Kisumi treats sex with the same reverence and care as running to the conbini to restock on toilet paper: a matter-of-fact dire necessity that isn’t even particularly sexy, actually. Or rather, something that he almost can’t help doing, that slips out of him in touches and incessant come-ons and dirty tumblr posts. Like a mild case of sexual Tourette’s syndrome that he has some level of control over.

So it’d be almost cruel to dangle such male perfection before his dumbshit little boyfriend (a term Haru isn’t sure even fits them), with NO strings attached, and expect him to say no.

This is probably the wrong thing to do, Haru notes as he cracks the cover, a hard metal thing that looks like it was reclaimed from a junkyard.

He gasps – almost screams – in surprise when an envelope drops unexpectedly into his lap, then has to breathe hard for a second even as he rolls his eyes at himself. He picks it up.

The English handwriting is neat, the spidery letters printed across the paper with an elegance Haru only dreams of. 'Honey – have a lovely time and please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything – I made sure you’re on the international plan. At least shoot me an email letting me know you’re alive, okay?' Haru snorts a little too loud, filled with incredulity and a twist of envy at the sparkly-unicorn spectacle of such a damn-nice parent.

Mrs. Shigino isn’t done. 'I’m so proud of you, Sunshine.' Haru snorts again. 'You wanted this next adventure in your life and I’m sure you’re going to be amazing. I hope the campus is as nice as it looked online. And I hope your Haru is too ~'

And to Haru’s vague horror, the literal back of the envelope declaration of parental perfection devolves into a string of x’s and o’s. He scowls and peeks inside, finding a stack of neat 1,000-yen bills still fresh from the money exchange. Emotional AND financial support; Kisumi won the jackpot.

He replaces the envelope in the front cover and suddenly the jerky nature of what he’s doing hits him, he who values privacy so much. The tea steams away as he pages quickly through, hyperaware of Kisumi’s every shift and unconscious mutter like Bilbo dancing around Smaug. Early on, a clumsy sketch stops him, visuals always grabbing his eye. The beach Kisumi’s drawn looks like paradise, even in blue ballpoint. A kindergarten-style sun sits spiderlike above the horizon. There’s a person (or maybe a dog) kneeling and building what looks like a sandcastle. He’s colored the person in so it looks like a Smurf, and block-printed SUNBURN so no one gets the wrong idea. Haru smiles.

'So no more pretending, they’re getting divorced,' he says under the drawing, in this handwriting that looks like it’s trying to fly off the page. “…oh, fuck,” Haru mutters.

'This was supposed to be just a good time, Spring Break in Cancun, can you say “cliché”?? and they fucking drop the news on me the night before we leave. As if it couldn’t wait. Momo’s been so great though. He didn’t even flinch when I cried on his shoulder on the plane, definitely not my finest moment. Tonight we’re gonna hit the bars and see who can score the most honies. I’m feeling good about my chances…'

Haru runs his fingertip over the deep indent of Kisumi’s words. Suddenly he feels like he just skipped ahead to read the last page of a mystery novel, so much that was confusing or obnoxious or mysterious about Kisumi unraveling in his hands. And the image of him in Haru’s mind shifts; he feels Kisumi’s angry Braille from a year and a half ago, and can almost taste the disbelief, the bitterness, the betrayal; the reality that shifted hearing just a few words, never to be restored.

Haru’s done. He’s probably already violated his own principles (not to mention Kisumi’s) too much, but you can’t play Terminator and go back in time, no matter how fond he is of full nudity. He snaps the metal cover closed and though he wasn’t trying to be theatrical, Kisumi wakes up anyway.

Actually, he jerks like someone just applied 10,000 volts to his nuts, flopping onto his back and squeaking like a kicked guinea pig. He searches up confused to find Haru propped in the pillows, calmly sipping tea.

“…drama queen,” Haru remarks.

“Jesus,” Kisumi slurs, blinking widely up at Haru for a few beats.

“You okay?”

“Ugh, I am now. God, I was so asleep. I think I was dreaming that you and I had a kid.”

Haru laughs with genuine pleasure. “If you say I carried the thing, I will castrate you.”

He isn’t expecting Kisumi’s reflexes to be so sprightly. The words are hardly out of his mouth and Kisumi’s grabbed Haru into his chest. Haru squawks and tries desperately to keep the tea level.

“Hey! Got a beverage, here!”

Kisumi compromises, sitting up against the pillows and pulling Haru into him. Then he paws the journal out from where its hard metal edges were jabbing their thighs. He holds it up like he’s confirming what it is.

“…oh, Haru,” he finally says, and Haru isn’t sure if his scolding tilt is playful or not. “Are you serious??”

“Sort of,” Haru hedges. In violation of his instincts he squirms to look up at Kisumi’s face. “I pussed-out, though. I went in looking for dirt on this week, but I accidentally read about your folks’ divorce instead.” He watches carefully, but Kisumi gets too close to read when he drops his head to nestle into Haru’s shoulder, like it’s a safe place for him. Despite their vast difference in size.

Haru finds he can’t stop talking. “Funny thing, too. I found your mom’s envelope first and was making all these snap judgments. Oh, look at Kisumi’s dream-Mom, holy shit. I may have been just a little bit in love,” he says nonchalantly, and Kisumi rolls them side to side like a half-assed hungry crocodile.

“You and her, Haru, fuck,” Kisumi gasps through a burble of laughter, and Haru’s fiercely glad to hear him happy. “Am I sick to think that’s hot? I’m sick, right?”

“Duh.” He slouches down to tuck his head neatly under Kisumi’s chin. “I’m just so sorry that happened to you. I guess there really is no such thing as a perfect family.”

“Momo’s is pretty awesome,” Kisumi says instantly.

“I gotta meet this kid.”

“…oh, you will,” Kisumi says in this horror-movie narrator voice, and Haru smiles. Then he’s flabbergasted when Kisumi presses his journal firmly into his hands. “Hey, this is probably way too creepy and meta. But will you read the last couple entries out loud?” His big, surprisingly graceful hands drop down to Haru’s thighs. “They aren’t long,” he adds like he’s giving a sales pitch.

Haru loudly gasps, glad Kisumi can’t see his face and anything unauthorized it may be doing. “If there’s an extended description of you deep-throating Sou, we’re breaking up.” Lips nibble his earlobe and Haru notes the distinct lack of an answer before showily cracking the cover and flipping to the end. He finds Tuesday and clears his throat.

“'Matusoka Rin. Less a name than an atmospheric disturbance, a man-sized hurricane, something that leaves you simultaneously exhausted and recharged at the same time.'” He tilts his head up to catch a distorted view of Kisumi’s face, a blush creeping down his jaw. “Really? Aren’t you journalists supposed to be all about the pursuit of truth?”

“One, fuck you. Two, no more editorial interruptions. That’s what I’m going to school for, aren’t I?”

“…just trying to help,” Haru says mildly, but he can’t get rid of his smile, or the undeniable excitement at getting to read Kisumi’s self-indulgent musings.

“'It’s pretty clear why they had him take me out first, sneaky bastards. This guy could chair the welcome committee in Hell. I actually wonder if anything throws him…? It’s a skill I could definitely pick up myself. He just has this… ease about him, a confidence without being TOO cocky (oh, he’s cocky, but like Goldilocks, it’s juuuust right). –'“

It’s here that Haru is compelled to violate his no-interrupt policy for the first time, letting out a sound best described as a caw of sheer delight. Kisumi allows it, as he should.

“'He just is so good at putting people at ease. I felt completely cared-for with him, in the same way a best buddy cares for you – checking in, keeping an eye on me, having a sense for where I was at. Just happy, no matter what we were doing.'”

…and Haru’s ready with an asshole comment about how he heard Seventeen magazine is hiring, but some improbable sense of decency that’s usually on vacation holds him back. It’s probably because he’s a ball of embarrassingly frank observations himself and seeing Kisumi doing the same, in the safe confines of his journal, feels comfortable, somehow. This is what he’s going to be when he grows up, Haru marvels. He gets paid to make shit up, and Kisumi is gonna get a job telling the truth, and Haru’s beginning to wonder which of them really made the right career choice.

“This is really good, Kisumi. Thank you for letting me read it,” he says sincerely.

Then he’s being shifted to the side as easily as Kisumi fluffing the pillows, and the big dude is bringing up a hand to cup his cheek, and they descend into a fierce makeout session. Haru anchors his hand on the long line of Kisumi’s neck and tells himself circular breathing, goddamn it, and goes with Kisumi’s flow, which is basically the Tokyo Bay during a monsoon. He finally releases Haru’s lips with a wet pop and falls back into the pillows, groaning.

Haru scrubs a hand over his face like a kid trying to reset their Etch-a-Sketch. “Fuck, Kisumi. You gonna do that to your editor? Cause, then we have to talk about appropriate workplace behavior.”

“I can’t help it,” he protests.

Haru smirks down, heart still going along at an espresso beat. “Which. I’m irresistible to you, or you get off on praise?”

The big guy sits up with a shamed-kid look. “I refuse to answer that.” Haru can’t help laughing like an asshole while Kisumi unfolds from bed, edging over to the stove and pointedly trying to keep his boxer-bulge directed away from Haru.

“Ahem. 'As it turned out, Rin didn’t have a damn thing planned for us. For ten. Fucking. HOURS. Now that’s jumping without a parachute.'” Haru makes a little choked laugh. “'Before I knew what was really going on, he had laughed and chatted us onto the metro and had this great idea for what we’d do. We were going to have a sort of scavenger hunt, where we’d ride the train all day and get off at random stops, and do the first thing we saw.'”

“For real!” Kisumi interrupts, turning with the steaming kettle in one hand and Haru’s tacky-ass mug shaped like a blushing geisha in the other. His eyes are huge. “Your boyfriend is crazy, Haru. There was nothing stopping us from busting into a yakuza party and, I dunno, having to join or die.”

“Do yakuza have parties…?” Haru wonders. The bed bounces heavily as Kisumi and his tea return. “Also, he’s YOUR boyfriend now too, so don’t go trying to pawn him off on me.” He winks a little wickedly and Kisumi’s slow grin back is a little shy even still, and there’s something about it all that fills Haru with the unsteady bubbles of being 18 again, if he’d actually had a chance to be normal and look forward to things the first time around.

“…ya know, this ‘shared boyfriend custody’ thing really may have some hidden advantages. More sex, less responsibility, know what I mean?”

Haru can think of an awkward string of heated conversations that directly contradict this rosy view, but he lets it go. He scoots around to lay his head in Kisumi’s lap, and a hand gently starts petting through his hair. The warm cherry mist drifts down around his head.

“'Funny thing though. Turns out, that’s the PERFECT introduction to Tokyo. You get the sampling of all the different flavors of metro commuter – tourists at noon, the office people at quitting time which in Tokyo apparently starts at 5 and just doesn’t stop, and then the clubkids starting to come out like little vampires by the time Rin headed us back to Haru’s.'” And there’s a little heart scribbled by his name, high-school girl-style. “'To be totally honest I can’t even remember all we did. I know we ended up eating at Mickey D’s since that’s the first thing we saw when we got off for lunch, which says so much about corporate imperialism I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. But even that was fun. Rin had us do the Pocky game with a fry and let’s just say we were the floor show.'”

“Rin texted you about that, didn’t he.”

“Oh, I got more texts from Rin on Tuesday than I think I’ve had total since I bought the damn phone.” Haru shakes his head solemnly. “That is just rude, man. Whose date was he on anyway?”

“I made him send most of ‘em,” Kisumi says so matter-of-fact like he was just following Haru’s instructions. Haru retches melodramatically into the comforter.

“…God, what is it with you kids and your goddamn phones??”

His head thumps down as Kisumi flops next to him, wiggling down the mattress so they’re shoulder to shoulder. His face is almost heartbreakingly earnest. …and here, here’s another thing about kids: they still see a point to the stuff they do.

“I wanted to be sure you weren’t left out! Here I dragged you to meet these guys just the day before when we were supposed to hang out, and then one of ‘em monopolizes me all day.” He lets out a frustrated breath that turns into a chuckle. “And shit. When Rin takes you out, he doesn’t screw around.”

Haru lightly smacks Kisumi’s overdeveloped pec and just leaves his hand there, palm up. “Stop being so damn cute. Having you out this week has been a win-win. …win-win…-win?” Haru dramatically holds three fingers in the air and thoroughly enjoys Kisumi’s confusion and skepticism. “You get to know those assholes in a saner environment than the clusterfuck the other day, they get to see firsthand that I wasn’t lying when I told them you were a hottie AND one of the nicest guys they’ll ever meet, and fucking best of all: I. Got. Me. Time.” He punches the air triumphantly.

It’s probably a mark in Kisumi’s favor that his response to all that is to suck Haru back into what’s clearly his go-to position for them, a tight-bordering-on-overwhelming spoon, before he softly says, “You told them that? That I was nice?”

“Nice-est,” Haru corrects him, because if compliments mean that much to Kisumi, he shouldn’t sell himself short.

Unexpectedly, he responds with a low growl. “Why do I have to leave tonight, this week flew by, why can’t we just have a little more time??” And Haru doesn’t have anything to say that doesn’t sound like trite bullshit, nothing Kisumi doesn’t already know very, very well… as well as Haru himself.

Sure, Kisumi’ll be back, by the start of his new school year in April at the latest, probably sooner than that to give him time to settle in to housing and all the rest of it. Their other-side-of-the-world virtual reality is gonna feel light-years-different now that they have 3D shapes to go with the images, the firm underrated curves of shoulders and the surprising strength of hands, the nuances of their expressions completely unrecordable by cameras. When they interrupt each other from sleep, they’ll have first-hand knowledge of what that means, of Kisumi’s hair-trigger reflexes and Haru’s vast collection of shitty loungewear.

And none of that matters. Because it won’t get rid of the 11,000 kilometers between them.

“So I want to make sure I tell you something… Kiss,” Haru says abruptly, after their shared silence has gone on long enough Kisumi’s probably assumed he’s not getting an answer. “When you go back home to NYC, I don’t want you to feel pinned down by any promises we’ve made for what’s happening when you come back.”

Kisumi makes a little noise of disgust but Haru barrels over him as he tries to go further. “No, I don’t mean anything’s different or that you matter any less because you’re way the fuck over there and we’re all here. That’s exactly why you should have the right to do what you want, be with whoever you want and enjoy, because I know sex is important to you, and we don’t have any kind of claim on you.” He breathes out, frustrated to even have to say something that feels so obvious, and Kisumi makes the same incredulous noise.

“I’m eating gourmet now. Why would I still want fast food?”

Haru cranes back, and Kisumi’s serious, dead serious like he’s almost never seen him, with this stubborn jut to his jaw that actually does manage to give him a chin, make him look a little fierce. And the idea that Haru and his (squad? homeboys? Dammit, Rin…) would get him throwing out whatever else he has going on back home like it’s trash… Well, Haru’s appalled to discover it, but he’s grinning in spiky pride over his man’s good taste. He reaches as far around as he possibly can and cracks a hand down on what sure sounds and has the satisfying feel of an asscheek.

“Ooh, I’ll be bad, please spank me again!” Kisumi gasps, delighted, like he wasn’t just in the middle of a confessional moment. At least he’s relaxed his vice-grip and Haru can launch away, taking the three necessary steps to get to his bureau. Satisfied eyes, equally aroused and amused, follow him as he dumps his kimono and digs for a clean shirt.

“We’re not just lying in bed all day in a seething vat of sexual tension?”

Haru tugs something long and sparkly over his head and fully enjoys the look he gets when he turns back. Nope, not a smidgen of Sou’s horrified 'oh dear holy fuck what have I gotten myself into…' Kisumi’s wearing the face of someone who’s just heard he won the lottery.

“Nah, I’m hungry and too lazy to cook for us. I’m a shitty host, dear, sorry.” He jumps himself into leggings and manages to hop out of Kisumi’s reach before he can get sucked into another needy hug. “Are you okay walking to the coffeeshop again? Would you rather try somewhere different?”

Kisumi gives him a sleepy smile that’s so sweet, childlike, he’s off his guard and Kisumi is able to grab him to leave a kiss on the top of his head. He does it with this loud smacking sound and Haru shoves him away.

“That coffeeshop is great. I like starting and ending my trip there. The alpha and the omega, the snake swallowing its tail, the eternal rebirth of the Coffee God…” drifts back echoey from the bathroom as he wanders in to take a piss and whatever other magic he may get up to to be so damn pretty. Haru scoffs.

“Jesus Christ, you college kids are weird!”

“Jealous!” comes back. Haru barely listens. He’s too busy hurriedly sending (his first) group text and feeling more than a little embarrassed about it.

*

“Wellll! Aren’t YOU a sparkly mermaid this morning!” Rin coos as they jingle their way through the door. Kisumi doesn’t miss a fucking cue as he instantly launches into “Part of Your World” beside him in the entrance, clutching at his hypothetical bikini top and screwing his face into the picture of passion. The regular knitting circle at the table by the counter cranes around to look. Haru coldly plans their deaths for a future date convenient to him.

Rin’s made it over in the middle of all the drama and the sun flooding the windows behind them pools in his eyes, lights them up. His huge grin is no dimmer. Haru blinks, curious how his firecracker man will greet them, and an instant later he’s snatching them both into a three-way hug, a tight arm around each of their necks. Kisumi has to stoop to fit and Haru huffs his laugh.

“Good to see you, too,” Haru smiles into the dark comfort between them. “What’s that line? Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder?”

“Oh my gawd you didn’t,” Rin protests while shoving him away, and Kisumi’s got the narrow-eyed smirk of someone who knows all about the subtext Haru isn’t mentioning.

“Hey hey. I heard you guys had a really nice time on Tuesday,” he adds, feeling oddly like a mom asking for notes from the babysitter but meaning it nonetheless. Rin magically settles, slipping his hands in the pockets of a pair of soft gray cords and watching him thoughtfully.

“It was great. It was sorta like, I haven’t really looked at Tokyo through someone else’s eyes before…? I forgot how big and weird it is here.” He smiles as he thinks for a second, and Haru glances over to the obvious hero-worship on the kid’s face. Hero-worshipping Rin, what a world.

“But it feels kinda small-town, too,” Kisumi interrupts, and Rin nods in confirmation. “All these people crammed in here and our waiter at dinner still goes booking down the street after us when I left something on the table. You won’t see THAT in New York.”

“His Hello Kitty keychain he got from some vending machine!” Rin crows like the asshole tattletale big brother he is. Haru starts snickering and Rin wags a finger at him. “Oh, don’t hurt the boy’s feelings. He planned to give it to you.”

“Yeah, thanks for blowing it,” Kisumi snaps.

“You got a Hello Kitty keychain and you weren’t gonna give it to me??” says a wounded voice as Makoto comes up to their little group blocking the door, and Haru’s bemused at how much he’s missed that sound, the just-for-show rictus of pain Mako gives them. Haru blinks and suddenly Makoto is beaming, the correct word is beaming like he isn’t sure he’s ever seen before, all stress removed from the smooth curves of his face and the easy slide of his powerful form. He bumps shoulders with Rin, gives Kisumi a firm handshake and a nod that manage to be friendly and not-at-all business. And then he leans over and kisses Haru on the corner of the mouth like a guy to his wife as he gets home from work. Haru blushes.

He’s triumphant, Haru muses. This date week, this little lazy hangout today, we proved we could all do it. TRANSLATION: I proved I could do it. He watches as Makoto pulls back away, artist-senses capturing the very confirmation of Haru’s theory in their long shared look. This is Makoto being triumphant.

…and he’s even humble doing THAT.

Rin has started to fall back towards the comfy grouping of easy-chairs in the center of the room, now that they’ve apparently outgrown their “usual” table like a goddamn family who keeps popping out the kids and has to get a minivan. They all follow, Makoto easily walking beside Kisumi. Haru traces over how good they look together, now that there’s zero drama or jealousy or stupidity and he can finally catch up on his ogling in this new peace. They’re just so… complementary, like different sides of the color wheel, perfectly balanced and pleasing to the eye.

“You guys are totally all-American, you know that?” he blurts the next observation in this particular train of thought, and all three look at him in fond silence before cracking up.

Sou unfolds from one of the chairs with the lazy speed of an old dog stretching, scratching his stomach. His stone-cold face surrounded by such hilarity is what makes Haru want to laugh.

“Hey, Grumpy,” Haru says easily, stepping forward to greet him at the same time Sou raises his arms to encircle him, like they had it planned. He bounces onto his toes for a kiss and accidentally bites Sou’s chin instead, a cat complaining for its breakfast, but Sou peacefully leaves it and he does too.

Sou’s bitchface can’t hide the relaxation in his eyes, the surprise, as if none of this – the necessary ridiculousness of their fivesome’s first meeting, this past week apart, whatever the fuck he got up to with Kisumi yesterday – was at all part of the rigid scheme that Haru knows rules Sou’s days. And that somehow the intrusion is welcome.

When he gently pulls himself free of Sou’s cashmere warmth, Makoto is coming back from the counter with little plates splayed out in both hands like a magician doing a card trick. “Your drinks are coming up,” he says. “Earl Grey for you Haru, and just a large dark-roast for you, Kisumi, right?”

Haru scrambles to redistribute the pastries to the coffeetable, shaking his head in surrender. Rin takes care of the verbalizing for him. “You’re fucking Makoto, of course it’s right. Ya don’t have to sound so damn innocent.” He pulls Makoto’s cheek around and smacks his lips before swanning off to collect the drinks.

“So!” Sou booms congenially once they’re all comfy in the chairs, Kisumi sprawling like he’s too big to fit into one. The dark man turns to Haru and he realizes Sou’s had a haircut this week, maybe in prep for his Big Day Out with Kisumi, maybe just coincidence. The newly-sleek lines make him look hostile-takeover-boardroom-good. Haru adjusts his sequined mermaid minidress and blinks innocently at him.

“I thought us being here was supposed to be a surprise,” Sou continues, folding his hands and glancing pointedly between Haru and The Boy. “I was all ready for the big reveal.” Haru shrugs as he tests his perfectly-brewed tea. Whattdya gonna do? Kids.

“I tortured it out of him,” Kisumi says. He’s dumped in enough half-and-half that you can hardly call what he’s drinking coffee anymore, and takes a gulp, showing off his long neck. Haru gives him his absolute-best ‘oh, really’ face. “You know how Haru thinks he’s this blank wall, but there are all these chinks and cracks if you know where to look, and baby, I know how to look.”

“Shigino, you are such an asshat.” Haru abandons the conversation with great intent and hogs three different kinds of cheesecake onto one plate to distract himself.

“Eh, I think you should share how much you tortured him yesterday, Sousuke,” Makoto suggests, in a principal’s office-voice, and Kisumi spits coffee back into his cup. Haru glances away from dessert-breakfast but Sou hasn’t moved from his serene therapist pose, hands still folded neatly away, and seems perfectly happy to share.

“Please, do,” Haru offers just as mildly, the ostensibly-adult part of him that actually does feel protective towards Kisumi waiting patiently and at the ready. “You know how much I like a little S&M over brunch.”

Sou recrosses his legs. “I think you can characterize it like this. Kisumi spent our time together testing my boundaries. My job then was to… how should I say… enforce those boundaries for him.”

Haru’s jaw unhinges slightly at the controlled relish in his words. “Uh, what, you keep him tied to your bed all day??”

Rin spits into his own cup. “Nope, I was already there doing that to Makoto, so…”

Sou barges on, actually seeming insulted. “Um, I have a little more class than that, thanks. No, I planned a great cultured day for us. We did a wine and pate picnic at the Imperial Palace, toured the National Museum. Dinner at Kozue.” Their circle listens to his Pretty Woman how-to-impress itinerary and Haru makes it to dinner before he can’t hold back anymore and has to giggle madly between his knees. He pops up and grabs Kisumi’s arm, lightheaded and giddy.

“You ‘tested his boundaries’ after all that? Honey, he treated you like Princess Di! He has never wined and dined anyone so hard in probably his entire life. Be flattered.”

“He was trying too hard,” Kisumi grumbles, getting a long “mmmmhmm” from Rin in the choir. Sou’s starting to look a little less serene in Haru’s peripheral. “Oh my God, I couldn’t stop making little digs at him the whole way – which, I think it’s safe to say, he served back just as hard.” He smiles wickedly at Sou and it hints at a whole heap of conversations Haru’s glad he wasn’t privy to.

“He only did any of it because he was competing with me over you, anyway,” Kisumi says faux-casually. “And that’s so, so cool and fine with me, because I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a little healthy competition. Right?” His grin across the table is both disarming and cocky.

“So, that’s how we ended up in bed,” Sou finishes. For something that’s sort of a confession, it’s funny how there’s no drama and hardly any surprise to it.

Haru recrosses his own legs. “…uhhh-huh. Well. That’s… nice, I guess.” He turns half-heartedly to Rin and Makoto who wear identical ‘watching guy getting hit in the nuts’ expressions. “You liar, Rin. You must’ve had Makoto stashed in some other bedroom.”

“My bad,” Rin offers.

Something dawns on him, a little too soon to know if it’s driven by anger, unsure if he’s angry at all about his two confirmed sex addicts getting down, really. “Hey – did you all screw Kisumi this week? Has this been like a very-special season of The Bachelor?” I should talk, he thinks.

“Hey, hey, I texted you everything we did,” Rin says with authority. “Kid chaperoned himself.”

Makoto is leaning forward to punctuate his testimony, even as Haru can tell he secretly finds the whole conversation a hoot… which relaxes him, somehow. “And our day was, literally, lunch at a cat café and then hitting the Ghibli and Fuji-Q parks and riding the coasters ‘til I thought I was gonna puke. Not exactly setting the stage for romance.”

“He took you to a cat café?” he asks Kisumi, volume control for shit as he wrestles with sudden laughter that’s gonna grab him, run away with him, he’s going to have to laugh for ten years at all the ridiculousness and wonderfulness he’s heard today. And it’s only been a week.

“Excuse me, are you really telling me you have more interest in fucking cats than finding out what Kisumi and I got up to? Really?” It’s the literary critic in Sou, the skilled editor. It’s clear what the intended climax of their stories was supposed to be… and leave it to Haru to fuck that all up.

He pulls Sou’s hand up where it’s clutched on the squishy armrest in righteous frustration. Sou lets him, lets him drag it to his mouth and kiss the back all old-fashioned. He pins Sou’s eyes and patiently waits for his little tantrum to bleed out, replaced by a sly interest.

“So what I was going to say is that of COURSE I wanna know all about your little sexcapade with my man, ya big boob. Later. When we aren’t sitting in my favorite coffeeshop. Kay?”

Sou slants his eyes coolly up and Haru turns his head to follow, and the barista is there to collect their empty dishes, the very same idealistic and perky college girl with a penchant for giving Haru unsolicited advice about his lovelife. They freeze in a little silence, the five men gazing up at the young woman. Finally, she fixes Haru with an authoritative stare and twirls her finger around the circle.

'ALL these guys? Really?'

Haru just nods back. 'Yes. Really.'

 …really.

***

I stole Rin’s awesome “ride the metro around Tokyo in a dance of controlled chaos” from a couple middle aged folks I know who did it. How fun does THAT sound.

The coffeeshop finale is for the fabulous TheGirlOnFandoms who wondered how that Judgy McJudgerson barista might react to their fivesome. Apparently, not bad!

Also: I just realized kid came 7,000 miles for a school site visit and never made it. OOPS. We’ll presume he squeezes a walkthrough in before his plane leaves. Along with that fancy dress-up dinner with Haru I ran out of space for, too ;P

You are all the best, I mean that and i can't say it enough <3


	37. Back on the horse

Sousuke’s first tickle against his consciousness is an actual tickle, this featherlight trace skating up and down his ribs, with what feels like a single fingertip. He’s immediately so awake he could probably recite pi to the 12th decimal. 

He makes a little squeak and there’s a breath on his cheek as Haru laughs at him. When he flutters his eyes open Haru’s face looms, lazy and relaxed and decorated with a riot of bedsheet wrinkles across his cheek.

With some animal homing instinct, he’s able to dart a clumsy hand down and grab Haru’s before he can tickle any further. He hauls it up between their mouths and ducks forward to kiss it.

Haru snorts with what sounds suspiciously like glee. The low rays of early-morning sun slant through the wrought-iron headboard and dance in his eyes – yet again, Sousuke was too distracted last night to follow through with his usual pre-bed protocols, his evening turned from solo to duo when Haru unexpectedly walked in. That had NOT been the plan.

After their time all-together yesterday hanging out with Haru’s… boy, the two had split off to do God-knows what. Kisumi had to visit his new school, to at least give him a cover story when his folks asked how Tokyo went. Beyond that, Sousuke could only guess what else they got up to, if Haru dragged the little incubus back to his place and just had his way with him until they had to stagger back out and catch the train to the airport for Kisumi’s red-eye.

So with Rin and Makoto also electing to take a little “they-time,” Sousuke was tucked in at home having a typical night – or, the kind of night he _used_ to have before Typhoon Haruka fucked him all up. With no one to impress, he was wearing his oldest, rattiest pair of sweatpants and a Tokyo Giants t-shirt so fragile the letters across the front were basically holding the thing together. He’d put on some blaring Marvel superhero action-fest, but he surprised himself when fifteen minutes in, he got bored and his fingers switched over to _Last of the Mohicans_ instead. He told himself it was work-related, to sneak the book back into a brain that had been shaken and stirred.

He was totally lost in the movie’s world, his big bowl of coconut ice cream melting half-eaten on the coffeetable, when suddenly Haru was there, blocking the screen with his arms wrapped around himself and generally seeming over-tired and annoyed. Frazzled, and unusually beautiful, even in some tacky satin suit he bet Rin had a hand in purchasing.

“So I take it this means they let him on the plane,” he finally said. “Unless, he got arrested for possession or something and you’re here to hit me up for lawyer money.” Haru’s expression was rapidly darkening and Sousuke was reminded how oddly attractive his man was when angry. He decided to push it a little. “You really could learn how to let someone know you’re coming over or at least knock. It’s a little thing called ‘respect,’ Haru. Now I know you’re basically a feral wolf-child so I shouldn’t expect a lot of you –”

That’s as far as he’d managed to get, as Haru sidestepped the table, shoved his face in, and attacked his mouth with the grace and finesse of Pac-Man. Sousuke had grunted and his hands had come up in some autonomic-nervous system reaction, to cup the back of Haru’s head. It hadn’t lasted long, Haru jerking away from him impatiently, his eyes dark and raw enough to live up to Sousuke’s dumb feral wolfchild description.

“Shut your mouth and fuck me,” Haru snapped, already ridding himself of the blue dress coat he was wearing, just ripping it off like the very existence of clothes in the world pissed him off. He smacked Sousuke’s hands away when he’d fumbled to help.

It was at that point that Sousuke had a rare moment of instant-clarity. Yes, he would indeed fill Haru’s demand, with a minimum of smartass remarks (as hard as the latter would be). Because he suddenly understood the cause-and-effect at play here. He’d had a chance to get his needs met this week. Haru hadn’t – or, at least that’s the compelling evidence that was in front of him, stark-nude now, tangling their arms together as he reached to muscle Sousuke’s t-shirt off.

 _Why_ Haru’s monk-act _while sleeping on the same futon_ as his boyfriend _,_ Sousuke had no idea; if you’re starving at a buffet, isn’t it your duty to eat? Or something on those lines?? It’s way past mystery into the realm of insanity, especially considering their clear – love, or at least affection – for each other. Hell, Sousuke had felt no such dilemma when Kisumi turned to him in the car after dinner, his lazy-lidded eyes projecting “seduction” (even if his hand had settled on Sousuke’s knee with a fleeting hesitancy).

 _This,_ Sousuke understood, with the ease and familiarity of picking up an old skill again. He recognized immediately that Haru’s kid was just like him – in the way Kisumi _went_ for it, hooking a finger in the collar of his button-down to pull him over the Jag’s center console, sliding his tongue in next to Sousuke’s without the obnoxious “who’s going where” uncertainty of kissing an amateur. The kid apparently was ready to move them along to the next stage right there in the condo’s garage, security cameras be damned. Sousuke had chuckled into his mouth and peeled the kid’s fingers away from his fly.

“Let’s take this upstairs, if you don’t mind,” he’d suggested, and Kisumi came back whining about his sense of adventure. He’d promptly informed the little fucker that if he didn’t behave Daddy wouldn’t lift a finger to help him out, which got Kisumi snickering and calling him a creep. But he’d jumped out of the car with the enthusiasm of… well, a kid.

…and, well, he’d screwed like one, too. No one could deny his beauty, splayed crosswise on the bed and flushed all the way down to his nipples, his pale hair jagged against the black sheets. Sousuke used the curves of his open hips like handles, standing on the side of the bed and rocking into his heat, Kisumi gasping and swearing and working himself over with a speed Sousuke was almost jealous of. But as they laid side by side after both getting off, Sousuke let his eyes skim Kisumi’s long, lean lines, awash in déjà vu. They could’ve both been crammed on his shitty dorm room bed, way back when he first learned to fuck-and-run. Catching their breath, painted with sweat. Ready at any second for one of them to pull themselves up, get dressed and say “see ya later.”

Kisumi beat him to it, rolling up and out of bed and on into the master bath. Sousuke took his cue and got up too, giving Kisumi a slanted smile when he emerged cleaner and more subdued, somehow.

“…so, Dad, I gotta get back to Haru’s before curfew. Could I beg a ride?” he smirked back, not meeting Sousuke’s eyes, but _damn_ if there wasn’t something very definite about being called Dad after all…

And Haru had eight fingers fishhooked into the waistband of his sweats, peeling them down around his ass on the couch. Sousuke was so sort of stupidly lagging behind Haru on the whole thing that it didn’t even occur to him to stand or even shift his weight to help. It was a very surreal complete sensory experience, being forcibly stripped by a petite, naked, _angry_ sex-demon, an experience that wouldn’t necessarily seem to be erotic. Apparently Sousuke’s body was in no doubt.

Haru wasn’t done surprising him. He assumed his man would climb in his lap, next; maybe move them together, maybe finger himself open before sinking down onto him. Sousuke was ready to let Haru do whatever he needed.

What he didn’t expect was for Haru to pull him up by one elbow, then turn and push him insistently back to his knees on the floor up against the couch. The leather dragged against his chest as Haru bent him over into the cushions, making him shiver. Then Haru’s hands were firm on his ass, spreading him open, and Haru’s _tongue_ was dancing his rim.

“… _Jesus!_ ” he gasped, squirming to try to get a look over a shoulder at what the hell Haru was doing… but the angle was impossible, and all he could do was hold two fists tight and press his forehead into the leather. He sort of wanted to laugh and then he sort of needed to moan, suddenly, as the gentle tickle was an insistent push, and pull, in and out and he wondered offhandedly how any other sensations on his body could possibly be relevant.

Haru, was _good._ He was so, fucking good at that. How, Sousuke was fucking stumped. As far as he knew, Haru hadn’t even done it before, and somehow Sousuke got to be the ironic recipient of Haru’s born-natural rimming skills. He wanted to laugh, again, but all he could do was hold on and occasionally hear incoherent praises babble out of his mouth. He maybe heard Haru laugh instead, just a little chuckle, a gust of air that made him shiver again. And then he was pushing in.

Sousuke blinks up as Haru gazes down, propped on an elbow and cheek squished cutely in his hand. The silence between them lies heavy but not uncomfortable, like one of those killer-humid Tokyo nights in July when you can practically taste the air and it feels like you’re getting a moisturizer treatment just being outside.

He decides to break it. “You know, for a newbie top, you did a pretty damn good job last night.”

Haru raises his eyebrows. “Oh? You think so, huh.”

“I do. To be honest, that was… one of the best fucks I’ve had.”

Haru lets out a totally-unconvinced “HA!” and does the thing he’s become so fond of lately, climbing up onto Sousuke’s splayed body like he’s Sousuke’s cat. It’s a comparison he can’t seem to stop making; he never had a pet growing up, and it’s like his brain is making up for it now in spades with this man.

“What a romantic. I’m surprised I made an impression.” But he’s smiling, a real one, and his eyes are so very blue in the sunlight, and Sousuke is so. Happy.

He makes an exaggerated full-body stretch and Haru’s jostled but not dislodged. “Well, I’m just happy I could help you out with your, _problem._ I’m always here for you if you need to get your sexual frustrations out.” He gives Haru a loud kiss on his forehead. “Use me, baby.”

“It’s funny. This week was sorta like – okay. Imagine, what if you told yourself, self, you’re not having donuts at ALL this week. None. So, even if you aren’t the world’s biggest donut fan, by Friday you are gonna just be _fucking screaming_ for donuts. You’re gonna fucking get yourself to the nearest donut shop and you are gonna buy yourself three-fucking-dozen donuts and you are gonna eat _every_ last motherfucking one of ‘em.” Sousuke’s laughing, hard, by this point, holding Haru by the shoulders in an attempt to keep him up against the violence of his shaking. Haru’s giant horrified eyes are almost as funny as his Samuel L. Jackson-esque rant.

“And! You may not even fucking _like_ donuts, particularly. It’s all about the power of denial. Strongest force in the universe, I swear.”

He slides his arms down, encircling Haru and finding the dimples above his ass. Neither of them had bothered with clothes after he’d carried Haru into the bedroom, Haru flung over his shoulder in a spontaneous bit of fireman-roleplay, and ended their night tied around each other.

“So you’re saying you aren’t into sex. Well, color me confused.” He reaches a little lower and gets in a good squeeze before Haru squirms down his torso and out of reach. “I like the donut metaphor though. Nice.”

It’s Haru’s turn to stretch, reaching up with his hands clasped then doing this crazy backbend thing straddling Sousuke that turns the expanse of his stomach and chest into an anatomically-impossible Japanese walking bridge. His face is red and his hair a riot when he comes back up.

“You owe me a sex story.” He gives Sousuke’s chest a smart slap. “What went down with Kisumi? Or, rather, who?” He sticks his tongue out playfully. And Sousuke suddenly can find absolutely nothing to say.

He settles for a shrug and a shuffle out from under Haru, heading purposefully to the bathroom. He hears little footsteps behind him.

Haru catches up with him as he’s messing with the temp control on the shower, trying to get it to the exact right point between lukewarm and too-hot. He doesn’t bug Sousuke, just sidles in and leans casually against the wall in front of him, just out of range of the rain-showerhead so he’s not standing like a drowned rat.

“Was he any good?” he finally asks, and Sousuke snorts despite himself. He reaches out and pulls Haru under the water with him, and pushes his way-too-goddamn-long hair out of his eyes when it curtains over his face.

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell” is the best he can do, and Haru lets out another “HA!” only this one sounds as delighted as it does incredulous.

“You totally fell for him, didn’t you.”

He pushes Haru’s hair back yet again. Honestly, if Haru would only get a damned trim…

“I get it, he IS the prettiest of all of us, by far! And shit, all that _energy,_ right?”

“He’s yours, Haru,” Sousuke finds himself saying like they’re in a fucking Nicholas Sparks novel and he sort of wants to die. “It couldn’t be more clear. We had a good time, yeah. Clearly he was looking for a good fuck as much as I was.” He stops and thinks. Haru’s silent, watching him from under his shifting-seaweed hair, mouth relaxed. “He started things. He’s an aggressive one – I think he’s a lot like me, actually.” Haru’s mouth quirks.

“So yeah, it was fun. He’s fun. But there’s not a fucking doubt in the world that he’s yours.”

“Ours,” Haru says absently, sliding in close and fitting his mouth around Sousuke’s right nipple.

*

“I think they’re gonna mind,” Mako says for the 72nd time. Rin would smack him, but that’d be partner abuse, and violence has never been the answer, after all.

Rin nods with great dignity to the awesome concierge guy as they pass through the lobby, getting not just a nod but a fucking _salute_ back. He returns it hurriedly before the elevator doors ding open.

“Look. Tell me, dearest Makoto, what you’re supposed to do when you wanna hang with someone and they have their phone off. I’m dying to know.”

Makoto’s expression doesn’t lighten a fraction. Rin hums to the tasteful elevator music and ignores it.

“You wait until they turn their phone back on, dumbass,” his man finally brings himself to answer. “I think it’s sweet that you value togetherness as much as you do. But sometimes your boundaries are just… I just. _Ugghh.”_ He runs a hand through his crazy-haystack hair and Rin rolls his eyes back.

“You saying you _don’t_ want to hang out with them?” He hooks a finger in one of Mako’s belt loops and gives him a little tug. Mako’s silent as the elevator dings for the penthouse level. Rin gives him a sympathetic pat on one firm pec before he purposefully strides into the hall.

“It just seems _rude_. I wonder, are we getting addicted to being with these guys?” Makoto’s asking when he catches up, voice pitched carefully low like he’s worried Haru and Sousuke may be eavesdropping in the foyer. Rin stops them at the front door and makes no particular effort to be quiet.

“Would that be so bad?” he asks his boyfriend. “I dunno, I think there are ‘good’ addictions and ‘bad’ addictions. I would classify this relationship more along the lines of exercise versus oh, let’s say, heroin.”

Makoto just stares at him across the width of the hallway for a second, while Rin waits patiently for his man to figure things out. “Or, how about this. So last night, we had fun at the movie, right?”

Makoto rolls his eyes so Rin feels empowered to go on. “Now – _now!_ Imagine how much more fun we would’ve had if they’d been there too.” He can’t resist it. “Taking up a whole fucking row with our ridiculous bara-ness, except for Haru, of course.  Getting every awful thing from the concession stand. Making a running commentary and being too goddamn intimidating to be kicked out.”

Makoto’s both not buying it _and_ buying it at the same time, which is an interesting hybrid of crinkled eyes and a very unsuccessfully-hidden smirk. “Your fantasies are almost unbelievably adolescent, I have to say.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Rin breathes with promise, finally stepping across the hall to kiss him. He jingles their gifted key in the air as he pulls away. “Let’s hope we don’t have to use this. Even I think that’d be a little rude.”

They do, as it turns out. They spend what must be a solid five minutes at the door, starting out with polite little knocks and hits on the doorbell, degenerating to Rin hammering (and singing) the 1812 Overture. Makoto grabs his fist just as he’s really getting into it.

“Clearly they aren’t home. Gimme those keys.”

Surprised and impressed, Rin lets Makoto do the honors. But rather than a vacant temple to excess, they practically have to shield their eyes at the sudden change from the tasteful dimness of the hallway. _Every_ light in Sousuke’s place is blazing. Rin blinks around, impressed and a little envious at how, even under these conditions, the penthouse is _still_ spotless.

“…hello, guys?” Makoto asks, a little hesitantly, of their two dudes. Their two dudes, who are apparently clueless to their presence. Sousuke hunches over a laptop at the head of the dining room table; Haru sprawls out at the seat kitty-corner, feet up on the table and computer in _his_ lap. Both are wearing giant can-style headphones… and identical looks of pure, stupid, dopey glee. Sousuke, in fact, is giggling to himself. Rin successfully manages to get his phone out and catch a video before anything can interrupt the blissful scene.

They watch Sousuke take his headphones off and grab the two empty coffee mugs on the table, still chuckling to himself, and haul himself to his feet. Then he turns to face the door.

“Hi!” Rin chirps.

“FUCK!” Sousuke screams, _screams,_ and oh, this was all worth it, he and Mako could turn around and head back down to collect the car and the night would be a success.

“Sousuke!” Makoto gasps back, some kind of deeply instinctive thing he can’t help where he needs to be sure the guy isn’t having some sudden fear-induced heart-attack or aneurysm or, something. It’s a good tendency, actually. It’d make him an excellent fireman or first-responder of any kind, that whole “willing to run towards danger” thing that few people have. Something to keep in mind for this looming job-search question…

“Makoto!” Sousuke replies, and Rin’s only a little sorry that he sounds almost back to normal. He flicks this narrow look over. “And Rin. What a pleasant surprise.”

Rin flounces up to him, standing there big and flummoxed, and gets up on tiptoes to give him a giant kiss. He still looks pissed, and confused, and a little turned on, when Rin lets his lower lip go and gently pulls the two mugs out of his hands.

“We don’t want to interrupt your work!” Makoto is insisting as Rin heads to the coffeepot. “We – well, we didn’t have anything else going on tonight and just thought we’d give you a try. But _we’ll be on our way,_ ” this last said with great purpose as Rin breezes by with the two full mugs.

“Nonsense,” Sousuke says, leaning against the edge of the table. Rin pushes one mug into his chest and glances down.

And Haru is still tapping away at his laptop, a blissed-out look on his face, his hair wrapped up in a pencil, headache-inducing-levels of speed-metal hammering out around his headphones, _clueless to their presence._

“Jesus,” Rin mutters. He sets the other mug gently next to the spacey writer and softly closes the laptop on his hands.

Finally, Haru deigns to lift his head. He blinks a few times at them all and says, over-loud, “What the fuck?”

“Fabulous. You got him talking like you now,” Sousuke sighs. Makoto’s watching Haru like he’s an Internet cat video.

“So where are you guys at?” Makoto asks, and Rin knows _exactly_ what he’s up to, he can read the telltale edge in Mako’s voice. _How ironic. I guess we all have our own addictions, don’t we._

“I was just about to suggest the same thing.” Sousuke glances down at Haru, who’s still only about 85% there but who’s at least managed to kill the sounds of farm animals being run through a blender emanating from his headphones. Haru meets his eyes with a questioning look. “I… don’t really talk about works in progress when I’m in the middle of ‘em. Superstition, I guess. Haru may be better at it.”

Some kind of understanding is exchanged, fast enough Rin’s a little amazed. These two guys, with serious communication challenges, which apparently – mysteriously – don’t extend to their work.

Haru gets up, leading them over to the couches (after appropriating his coffee, Rin’s glad to see). Makoto’s last to join them, coming back from the kitchen with a couple of coffees for him and Rin too, and he gives his man a happy squint as he accepts his mug.

The three of them snug together on one couch, Rin tucked in the middle of his two giants. Haru stands in front of them, swimming in a giant black sweatshirt (undoubtedly one of Sousuke’s). His eyes are wide and Rin’s heart sorta squeezes.

“Okay. Where you guys left off, I think Rob and Michael just had their little… sexytime, in the loft?” He looks expectantly between them and Rin thinks, oh, honey, if you only _knew_ what an understatement that was.

Makoto’s thankfully more verbal than he is. “Oh, _yes,_ ” he says in an _I-am-eating-chocolate-right-now_ voice that makes Sousuke bust out laughing. Haru nods with this funny resolve.

“Okay. Well, a lot’s happened since then… which, of course you’re gonna read, shut your face, Rin.”

“What??” he demands, aggrieved. “Sheesh, I don’t need this abuse.”

“SO, anyway,” Haru plows on. “You’re GONNA read it. But I think we’d like a little help right now instead… we just got to this scene where Michael and Rob are about to _have some more sexytime_ and let’s just say you guys are just what we need.”

“I, have been waiting for you to ask us this, for so. Long,” Makoto says so fervently it’s almost embarrassing.

“Uh, WE,” Rin corrects haughtily.

“God, you two,” Sousuke groans. He waggles his fingers at Haru. “Catch ‘em up.”

Haru shoves his sleeves up and they promptly start drifting back down. “So here’s where we’re at. Rob and Michael basically turned the cabin into a – loveshack? Just, conjugal bliss, every night, if the loft’s a-rocking don’t come knocking.”

“Poor Kate and Stephen,” Makoto says. Rin shoves him hard enough to threaten his coffee.

“We’re all consenting adults! Oh, and also, _romance_ novel! Dude. If I’m gonna get with you, I don’t give a _damn_ if my sister and his best friend –” Sousuke gets a smack on that one. “– have to watch, much less overhear the odd squelching sound.”

“Godddd,” Sousuke moans.

“Are you finished?” Haru asks peacefully.

Rin does Sousuke’s finger-waggle move at Haru. “Onward.”

“SO. Odd squelching sounds abound, platonic romances are nurtured – or are they??” He smirks deviously. “Y’all are farming. Raising chickens. It’s all good, basically. And then, the British drop by to fuck it all up.”

“Booooo!!” Rin isn’t even sure what the hell is going on, but he’s having too much fun to fact-check.

Haru turns and points at Makoto with great solemnity. “ _You_ get forced back into service. And _you_ ,” pointing to Rin, “get press-ganged into the British Army. Even given your _seriously_ mixed loyalties to them, considering you were raised by a Mohican, considering you want no part of their war.”

Rin frowns. “What the fuck. I’m an American, I have no loyalty to them, right?? How can they do that? Why can’t we both say ‘fuck you’?”

Before Haru can get a single word in, Makoto’s grabbing his shoulders insistently. “Because there _were_ no ‘Americans,’ Rin! You were just some scrappy mutt who was owned by the Crown! Just as much as me. The colonies were just a mini-England… or, I guess, maxi-England. The military could grab you anytime they wanted and force you to sign up. We wouldn’t have a single thing to say about it.”

They all just blink at the force of his passionate history-buff-ness for a second. He finally comes back enough to himself to let Rin’s shoulders go, which he appreciates, given the bruise-y grip Makoto gets when really excited.

“You total nerd, Makoto,” Haru says in these melting tones of pure, undeniable love.

“…sorry, Haru-chan,” he mutters.

Haru’s moving on. “Makoto’s spot-on, of course. They march your sorry asses out to Fort William Henry. It’s not a fun journey. Stephen’s forced into service, too. Kate, they drag along because you can always use another nursemaid.” A sudden dark look crosses his face that makes Rin worry for what’s really in store for his sister. “You two guys are separated, of course. It wouldn’t do to let the British officer continue to fraternize with his little American fuck-buddy, even if everyone knew it was going on.”

Another silence. Rin almost doesn’t want to break it this time. “But… we’re able to hook back up when we get to the fort, right? I mean, they can’t keep tabs on us all the time, can they??”

Haru smiles grimly. “Rin, I’m sorry. Authors are fucking dicks.” Sousuke nods in this instant understanding. “Things aren’t easy for you when you all get there. Let’s just say Rob has trouble ‘accepting authority.’ One thing leads to another, and you – he – gets stuck in the brig for insubordination.”

“Those fuckers,” Makoto curses. Rin suddenly notices Makoto’s holding his hand, which helps ease the pain of this shitty turn of fictional events. “What kind of spineless asshole am I, just going along and letting them do that to him??”

“But you don’t know about it,” Haru insists, sitting himself down on the coffee table in front of Makoto and leaning in like he’s actually trying to convince him of the rightness of his (in)actions. “You’ve been kept completely in the dark. _Until,_ this other officer comes to talk to you. An officer with _strawberry-blond_ hair.” He smirks. “Leave me alone, it was the only way we could make ‘pink’ work, okay?”

“Yeah!!” Rin crows. He doesn’t know how the fuck this kind of fun could possibly be a way to make a living, just as he can hardly believe he’s sitting listening to fucking Haru of all people tell them a little fantasy story starring everyone he knows, apparently.

“That’s more like it,” Mako says, almost viciously. “What, let me guess, he works the brig and Rob got him on board to send a message?”

“Do I have to tell you everything?” Haru bitches. He shoots a sharp look to Sousuke. “So that’s where we’re at. Michael just made some half-assed excuse and ditched the meeting he was literally in the middle of. _With his superior officers,_ mind you. That’s no way to advance your career in the British Army.” Haru and Sousuke share identical, crooked, _wicked_ smiles.

Sousuke, surprisingly, picks it up. “So you just charmed your way past the guard, Makoto. Told him to get lost. Nicely, of course.” He turns to look at them, appraisingly, judgily, and Rin feels himself bristling on instinct. “Now, the trick is that you weren’t able to get the keys from him before he took off. But hey, a set of bars isn’t gonna keep you two apart, is it?”

And their two authors, their two _puppet-masters,_ turn to give them both a “well, bitches?” look that AGAIN is just creepy-similar.

“You two are officially spending _way_ too much time together,” Rin huffs. He pops to his feet and holds a hand out to Makoto.

Makoto gets him without a word. He takes it and lets Rin help him up, leading them around to the other side of the coffeetable. Haru slips over to take their spot on the couch with an expectant look.

Rin pivots them into profile, grabbing invisible fistfuls of something between them and shaking them fruitlessly.

“Bars,” Sousuke says like the genius he is.

Rin turns to point at him – _we have a winner! –_ make a face, be a smartass, more or less. But a hand yanks him back by the collar –

And Mako’s _pulling_ them together, just molding them together like they’re two pieces of estranged modeling clay that need to be reunited, close enough Rin can feel that Haru’s little storytime has apparently had a… stirring effect on his man. Even with the noticeable LACK of explicit material. Rin wonders first if it’s angst that really gets Mako off. Then – as he threads his arms through his imaginary “bars” to link behind Makoto’s neck, cursing the silliness of it all as much as he adores it – he realizes, that’s not fair to his man. Makoto’s protective, that’s all it is. He’s always wanted to be sure Rin is safe and okay, at school, at work, or in this crazy new thing they’re all doing together.

…and imaginative. Makoto’s always had a hell of an imagination.

Makoto, who’s intent on fumbling his jeans open _even_ as he practically devours Rin with his lips, _even_ as he fully respects the ridiculous vertical-plane confines of their playacting bars.

Distantly, Rin hears the unbelievably pompous tones of Sousuke: “…yeah, I think we can probably work with this.”

***

HI YOU BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE

So given that it’s been approximately 72 years since the last chap, anyone who’s a) still reading and b) on top of that, has a damn clue what’s going on, is entitled to an all-expense paid trip to Tokyo on me (limited quantities apply) (PFFFT)

Thanks to [Bishop Briggs’ amazing song “River”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5jz8xdpR0M) for the inspiration to make Haru seriously thirsty at the start there, and to those of you who yelled at me long enough to get this ridiculous pile of fluff done. You are awesome <3


	38. Good things come to those who wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be forewarned, things get a little violent at the end of this chap. It’s nothing too graphic, but skip if needed!

This one’s for Daisy. There isn’t a better motivator out there. THANK YOU :D

***

Makoto always considered himself a pretty mellow guy. Being the oldest of three meant somebody louder and pushier was almost always in line for his mom and dad’s attention before him. He learned early on to go with whatever prevailing wind was blowing; letting his brother pick what they watched on movie nights, helping his folks plan their big vacation to California when the Hello Kitty museum opened there and his sister wouldn’t shut up about it. (Even if he surprised himself by falling in love with the place and poring over every display as his folks eventually took the restless twins out for dinner without him.)

He just got almost compulsively  _good_ at seeing the good – in experiences, in people. It’s one of the handful of things about him that drives Rin crazy; they’ll be at the grocery store shopping for dinner supplies, and they’ll see some mom yelling at her kid. And Rin gets this nasty little gleam in his eyes (one of the handful things about  _him_ that drives Makoto crazy) and spends the next three aisles mercilessly picking apart the woman’s parenting skills. When sighing doesn’t work as a communication strategy Makoto eventually makes some snarky fed-up comment, something passive-aggressive along the lines of “we’ll see how well YOU do when your kid’s asked you for the toy for the 72nd time”… which usually gets Rin hotly arguing for the 12-point evidence-based behavioral strategy he’d have ready to go, were he (they?) in that situation.

(Makoto would like to see that, for the sheer entertainment value alone.)

So, Makoto has gone through most of his days floating on a (seemingly) enlightened, judgment-free ascended-being cloud. Great. Where this comes back to bite his ass is anytime the world (or, more accurately, Rin) has demanded a decision from him. He just… isn’t built for it. Which bad action movie to catch on one of their rare nights off together? Hell, any would be a most-enjoyable socially-acceptable excuse to fool around with Rin in the dark for a few hours (not to mention eat something with no redeeming value). Same problem with restaurants (the place with the fabulous desserts or the cute courtyard?), vacation dreams (the discreet sexiness of a traditional ryokan inn or the sexy-sexiness of a love hotel?), jogging routes (peeking in people’s apartment windows or heading to the park?). 

Keep drifting along from day to day in the familiarity of the known, or throw the careful equilibrium of his life (with Rin) out the window?

Choosing one thing means sacrificing something else.

Lately, though, some other side of him has emerged, a side he doesn’t even necessarily recognize in himself. A feeling that something inside (that’s still Makoto…?) busily comes in and sweeps all the cluttered  _ifs_ and  _I’m not sures_  out of his mind, like he’s knocking a teetering stack of disorganized shit off a table instead of looking at it one more second. Some part of himself that has no doubt about what to do or what he wants.

And now, this assertive new part of himself wants to  _fucking know what happens next in the fucking book._ Given that it’s ABOUT HIM, he doesn’t think it’s an unreasonable demand.

*

“…so!” Makoto tries, brightly.

No response. No, scratch that; Sousuke’s ceaseless typing – skittering along like a hamster on steroids – finally pauses.

“I told my brother we’d never make it,” Sousuke mutters under his breath. Then again, stronger, an octave up, like he’s tasting the line in his mouth – “I  _told_ my brother we’d never make it!” There’s a long beat, a “…huh!” and the  _snick-snick_ kicks back into gear.

Makoto grabs the opening and lays his own laptop aside on the couch, meanders casually over to the dining room table. The author is hunched over his high-end machine, fixated on the screen, scowling.

“I’m thinking of putting my name in for Prime Minister,” Makoto tells him after he’s had his fill watching. “Screw this job search. I was meant for greater things.” He waits; Sousuke’s glare is unwavering.

“Actually, screw Japan. I’m gonna get ‘em to rewrite the Constitution so I can run for President. America  _needs_ me, Sousuke.”

Sousuke finally blinks up at that – probably at his name. “Sure,” he says vaguely, and Makoto enjoys the sight of a light finally dawning (…slowly) in the guy’s bloodshot eyes. “…what?”

Makoto sighs and slides around the table to lean in close. He’s surprised when Sousuke instantly leans back, resting his head on Mako’s abdomen and lolling it side-to-side in a long stretch, groaning painfully. Makoto reaches down to dig into the hard ropes of muscle in his neck. They’re so locked-up, it’s like trying to unwind the tension in a slab of granite.

 _…the book must be in end-game_.  _I’d expect this kind of thing from Haru, but if SOUSUKE’s in such shitty shape…_

Sousuke’s noises have drifted over some know-it-when-you-hear-it line and are more porn set than massage table, further confirming how trashed he is. Makoto clucks his tongue. “Rin would kick your ass if he saw how bad you are at good posture.”

“Fuck him,” Sousuke dismisses. “Ah – ! There. Right – there – fuuuuck…”

Makoto switches over to his elbow instead, leveraging it without mercy at the nasty  _thing_ lurking in the base of his neck. Sousuke loses all ability to speak and slides forward, moaning and gasping alternately with his head buried in his arms.

Makoto pounces.

He’s only a sentence or two in, after dialing madly up to where he left off in his last read WAY too long ago (eyes widening at the sheer volumeof material piled up since then), when the screen is suddenly pulling away like his conscience is trying to stop him from spoilering the book.

Haru’s there, dripping wet and naked, apparently so hot to get his hands on Sousuke’s laptop he couldn’t even spare the time to put on a bathrobe. He leans deeply over the other side of the table to read, and Makoto’s hands forget what they’re supposed to be doing.

Sousuke drunkenly lifts his head from the table. “Makoto, my God, you’re good at that.”

Makoto laughs, a little too loud. He gives Sousuke’s back a brisk finishing pat. “I better be. You wouldn’t believe how many bad pornos start with a ‘massage.’ Or maybe  _you_  would.”

Sousuke turns in his chair and has a death grip on Makoto’s waist before he can say or do a thing about it. Next thing he knows, he’s awkwardly balanced over the guy’s shoulder with his ass in the air as prominently as Haru’s. He’s able to get a “….hey!” out as Sousuke makes for the bedroom.

“Where are  _you_  going. I need you here,” Haru demands behind them.

“Gotta take a break, Haru. You could use one too,” he sends back over Makoto before kicking the door open.

Makoto’s flattered at the attention and, well, very skillfully diverted for the rest of the evening, especially after Haru skulks in and devotes himself to Makoto’s top half. Grumpily.

They eventually end up sprawled together, the authors bookending him, Haru’s soft snores tickling his bare chest. Makoto stares up at the shadowed ceiling, running through the precise series of steps needed to extricate himself from under Haru’s head and Sousuke’s leg, worm his way off the bed, creep out of the room, and grab Sousuke’s laptop without waking either of them. It doesn’t take him long to realize it’s a lost cause.

*

Makoto’s at the library when he gets the texts. He’s long done with his appointment with the reference librarian, an earnest and aggressively friendly guy about Makoto’s age who led him on an exhaustive tour of job-search engines and resume-posting sites and guides to finding your passion. By the end of it, he’s wondering if he shouldn’t be a librarian himself. He’s always loved books and, hell, helping people. There’s just the matter of that degree…

He’s wandering, aimlessly, letting his eyes drift over the titles in the cookbook section and the travel section and the history section without anything really registering. It’s the same when he tries to look inside to answer the question that’s been looming taller every day –  _what the hell_ am _I good at?_ And he can only see a big blank, a featureless blind spot. The idea of going back to school for anything at 30 is ridiculous. And even if he were up to it, mentally and financially, he has no idea what to go for. He was never one of those kids who obsessively dressed as a fireman or something, who had some unshakeable passion _._ He was always okay just being himself.

He never expected that this blanket acceptance would work against him.

Makoto can’t help smirking at the accidental path his feet have taken: of course, here he stands, in the romance section. He skims the names and is amazed to find Yamazaki Sousuke, his little group of titles a stark primary-color contrast to all the pink surrounding them.  _Only in Tokyo._

He pushes his stack – every Yamazaki they carry – at the middle-aged circulation desk clerk. Her pleasant poker face is most impressive, especially when what looks like a centaur couple flashes by under the scanner.

“Apparently he’s collaborating with someone on his latest book,” she remarks as she scans his card, and Makoto practically flinches.

“Really! That could be interesting,” he finally recovers.

The poker face is instantly gone, replaced by a dark look behind her sensible glasses. “No, it’s bad news, mark my words. When do they bring another writer in? When they don’t like what they’re getting. When it isn’t  _selling_ well enough.” She _tsks_. “Mark my words. This next book is going to be safe and dull as dishwater. Another artist ruined.” She pushes his stack of suddenly-subversive works back to him.

“So enjoy these while you can!”

Makoto somehow makes it out the door before riding a hysterical little laughing fit, and somehow avoids dropping the books in the process. He waves off a questioning look from a clump of high school kids on their way in, breathing himself back to normal. Oh, that was beautiful. Just beautiful.

As soon as he’s in the car, he has his phone in hand to share the story, and that’s when he finds the texts.

**Sousuke:** _Our dear friends (and employers), it’s a big day for Haru and me: IT’S DONE. The first draft anyway, God knows how long Rei’s going to hack at it. So we’d like to have a little get together at our place to read it for you. How does this Saturday look? Otherwise Haru and I are wide open. Don’t have anything better to do anymore. Thanks, S._

**90-1771-8857:** _I am in SHOCK, gentlemen. I don’t think I can remember a faster first draft?? Wow, we’re all so thrilled here at the office to hear it. We can be there on Saturday whenever you’d like. Thank you and we can’t wait. Best - Rei_

**The Bae:** _qaefoq3-aadnageqdoa’edfhd; u headed over there now too?? I wanna disprove his little “nothing better to do” theory. see u soon ;*_

Their guys were back. After a near-total blackout so complete that Rin texted  _All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy_ to them both daily (with no reply), they were back. And they came with a book – THE book – in hand.

Makoto leaves some tire tracks and the remains of his dignity behind in the parking lot on his departure.

***

Each time Michael joined with his man left him wanting more. Other needs, hunger, thirst, were temporary; meet the need and forget it just as quickly. This was different, painfully so.

Rob’s body rode along with him wherever he went. He could close his eyes, for the briefest moment, and the darkness was filled where before it was a dull void. Sometimes his mind’s eye trailed languorously down the perfect geometry of Rob’s bare back, graceful and strong, caught in the tension of wanting to move but holding still to let Michael greedily look his fill. Sometimes the briefest collection of moments wove through his thoughts, a dreamlike flicker of clutching hands and straining thighs, the surprise of sudden tears, he and his man mingled into one. Sometimes it was as simple and as innocent as the slow bloom of a smile on Rob’s face – and, this being his man, the absolute lack of anything simple or innocent in such a sight.

If Michael had felt any trace of allegiance to his former station, this newfound obsession would have been something to quell and push away. He had never experienced obsession before, in the whole of his life. He had never known a feeling or a cause – or a person – so all-consuming that he could come to the end of a full and exhausting day, bone-tired, and realize Rob’s name had never left his mind.

Not his name, nor his smile tossed over one shoulder, nor his quick hands as he bound his hair out of his way, nor his laugh, echoing off the trees.

Michael was not the man who had bumbled off to the New World to do his duty. That man had loved his brother and sister, had been a decent caretaker of the family estate, had been motivated by a sense of _duty_. And he had been a shadow of himself.

Now, the clarity he felt was almost painful, in the way the sun is hard on the eyes after a long time in the dark. Finally, he was motivated by _love_ , love for another and love from another. This new force fed him and filled him with a new sweetness, as rich as cherries in the summertime.

***

Michael awoke with the vaguest sense of _wrong,_ a feeling that quickly defined itself.

Rob was absent from their anonymous pallet, tucked into a shadowed corner of a storeroom. For the few seconds it took Michael’s conscious mind to catch up with his unconscious, he stared hard at the snarl of linen in Rob’s place and wondered if he had ever existed at all. It wasn’t a rational thought, but it was persuasive.

He dressed quickly, pulling on breeches and hose and shirt and tunic and absently cursing the loss of time.

And past the heavy oak door and stone walls of the storeroom, soldiers ran and shouted and yanked on uniforms and fumbled with muskets in an ugly symphony of growing chaos.

Fort William Henry was under attack.

Michael teetered on the bare edge of the moment. He must run to the officers’ quarters and lead his new unit, throw himself into the desperate fight to repel the French and Huron. The French and Huron, pushing their way into the fort through flaming gaps in walls that had seemed so impregnable even yesterday. He must – as a lieutenant –

Michael turned, thoughtless, blundering back to scoop up his rifle propped inside the storeroom door. Then he swept out, into the open air, storming around and under and through a dozen skirmishes and engaging in none of them. The whole scene was a nightmare, like he was still in bed with Robert curled into his side, his mind working through the difficulties they’d experienced since their arrival. But like a dream, he was hardly surprised as Stephen’s familiar face grew out of the darkness from the direction of the makeshift barracks, and as Kate barreled their way from the infirmary, the three unlikeliest friends finding each other like homing pigeons.

“Where’s my brother??” Kate roared, seizing Michael’s arm as hard as he had Stephen’s. Her hand was trembling, like someone in the midst of a violent fit.

Michael’s mouth answered, and somehow he was calm, pushed along in the dream he couldn’t escape. “He’s gone. He was gone when I awoke. I don’t know where the _hell_ he could be.”

Stephen shook his gun fiercely. “Well, let’s look! Let’s split up!”

“No.” Kate’s eyes compelled them as much as the dead-calm certainty of her words. “No splitting up. We keep together and we _think._ Is there anyone who can help us?? Anyone at all?”

Michael knew, knew what to do, and the dream-state dropped like a curtain from his mind.

“We’ve got to find Summers,” he commanded.

***

In the madness, it took time – too much time – to find Lieutenant Summers, who had been so good to them, who for some reason had violated orders and put himself at risk of court-martial to free Rob. His pale hair stood out against the fire raging madly behind him.

“Tanglewood!” the officer screamed over the dull roar, caught in a brief lull in the fight. He shambled up to grab Michael’s shoulders, and the usual mischief in his eyes was blown away, his handsome face haggard with pain. “You’re alive, man!”

“As are you!” Michael cried, clapping him gently on the cheeks. “Are you badly hurt?”

Summers shook his head, impatiently. “No time for that. You must leave, now.”

Kate was there, inserting herself like an officer at a parley. “Why. Have you seen something? Do you know where my brother might be??”

The lieutenant turned to her then, so gravely, bowing his head. “That is exactly why you must go.” He glanced up to meet Michael’s eyes, then passed his gaze quickly to Stephen. “A Huron raiding party has your man; I watched them carry him away myself. I can only imagine what they plan to do with him.”

Michael stood frozen, a fixed point in the center of a galaxy that whirled, whirled, faster and faster around him…

A rational man, a calm man receiving this news in some orderly room with tea on the table and his wig firmly on his head, would demand to know details. The very idea was ludicrous. What would a war party want with _Rob?_

Here, with the world falling down around them, all he could say was “Do you know what direction they went? Where they might have gone?”

“Huron winter camp is upstream a ways,” Stephen broke in. “I wondered why in blue hell they stuck this fort here, almost in their goddamn backyard!”

“That’s British intelligence for you, my good man,” Summers laughed without the slightest humor. “I’m certain that’s where they’re headed. You cannot allow them to get there if you care for that man.” This time his piercing gaze was reserved for Michael. “And I believe you do.”

Michael grabbed Summers in an embrace before he could even finish speaking. They traded well wishes, the officer shaking Stephen’s hand and kissing Kate’s before staggering back into the fight.

Then the lover and sister and foster brother shifted without discussion from three into one, from horrified reactors to grim actors, with hardly a word. They slipped like shadows through the battle, sparing no time for anything but a swift detour to the armory for fresh gunpowder and shells. The armory itself was a ruin, the ordinance there having caught in the cannon fire that must have sent the adjacent outer wall crumbling to the ground. It was disturbingly simple to boost each other up and over what was left of such a secure fortress, demarcating civilization from the lawlessness of the frontier.

They hurried along the earthworks scarring the land around the fort, staying bent to the ground to make as small a visual as they could. Though he and Stephen were a head taller and unburdened by heavy skirts, Kate somehow took the lead at a punishing pace. In the darkness, she was a tiny fury, storming forward with her long hair flowing behind her. She seemed to float across the earth, come from heaven or hell for justice.

Kate and Stephen had no trouble finding the stream. With that done, the chase was a wordless, breathless, mindless sprint, the only sounds the drag of their panting and the slap of their feet. Time stretched tortuously yet narrowed to a single point, as the water burbled and their rifles swung, and dawn slowly sharpened the landscape.

Kate crouched, suddenly, and Michael watched her dab a finger on the ground. And her eyes as she glanced up at Stephen, at Michael, were as dark and deadly as the blood on the rocks.

They pressed on, weary yet somehow energized, as the rough path on the riverside gave way to boulders that climbed, higher and higher. Beside them, the river splintered into a staircase of staggered waterfalls, their roar filling the air.

It wasn’t long before the hard scrabbling from boulder to boulder led to an actual path, cleverly hidden and difficult to find, the first sign of human passage. They paused at this junction, again without word but driven by some kind of understanding.

For an instant, Michael was back, fifteen years back. He was kneeling in a midnight ditch, one wheel of their family’s coach spinning lazily in the air where they ended up when the highwaymen were done with them. He was shaking his mother, his father, trying to revive them, and behind him rose the awful wails of the twins, huddled in the coach on his order.

Michael couldn’t cry, _couldn’t,_ for it wasn’t sadness that wrapped around him, it was _guilt._ Guilt that there had been a chance – somehow – in that turning point before his parents’ murder, when he could have stopped it. But he had missed his chance. They had been torn away from him, from his sister and brother. He had never escaped that cold knowledge, that the most important moment of his life had passed him by.

And now they were here, huddled together at the foot of the path to catch their breath for the steep ascent, and Michael knew it had come again. Another chance. The rifle was cold in his hands, solid and deadly, and he prayed his hands and his eyes and his heart wouldn’t fail in what was to come.

They continued on swiftly up the path, Stephen in the lead, Kate taking the rear, guns at the ready. The roar of the rapids faded beneath them as the path curved away, hugging the side of the cliff with a sheer rock wall to their left and a growing chasm on their right.

It was in this relative quiet that they finally realized they were not alone. Close – just ahead and around the bend – was the unmistakable shuffling of feet. It was impossible to gauge how many. They only knew that the war party was sliding away, up and up the path ahead of them, making an attack almost impossible.

Michael also heard something, interwoven with the beat of footsteps, completely out of place. A lullaby, some Huron cradle song, drifting through the air…

In his distraction, Michael faltered and Stephen was there, hunting knife at the ready in one hand. His eyes were so wild and murderous, Michael thanked God he was on the man’s side.

“We gotta sneak up on ‘em and take out as many as we can. Cut their throats. The second they get wind of what we’re doing, you gotta open fire, Kate,” he hissed, eyes flicking between them. “You’re probably the best shot. Just tell us to get outta the way and let ‘er rip.”

It took Kate no time to agree, creeping up to press her own hunting knife in Michael’s hand and giving him a shove forward.

“Kill those fuckers,” she whispered. “And I love you both. _Go!”_

A curtain dropped over Michael, one more time, a cold thing that slowed his heart and his breath and _pushed_ him up the path behind Stephen. Around a curve and there they were, the rear guard, a line of Huron moving fast and with seemingly no clue to their presence.

The first two braves went down smoothly, dropping to the path under Stephen’s knife with choked gurgles lost in the sound of the water, just as they’d planned. Then their luck ran out.

Someone up the line turned back, maybe to pass along information, maybe to complain; regardless, they were greeted with the sight of two wild-eyed white men, brandishing hunting knives and frozen in place as if that could make them any less obvious.

Everything moved very quickly at that point.

The tense silence shattered into a chorus of war whoops, echoing off the rock face. Stephen lurched forward and was able to take down one more brave before a second engaged him in a vicious attack. Michael was quickly trapped, grappling with a giant of a man who had him pinned against the rock wall. It was like a game of arm-wrestling, played with their full bodies and with deadly stakes. The man strained to keep him in place, while Michael strained to move his knife into a killing position against his chest, both of them slick with sweat. He knew he’d seated his blade correctly when finally, _finally,_ the big man’s eyes went wide in alarm, squeezing shut as Michael heaved the knife fully into his heart.

The man fell heavily to the ground and Kate’s desperate call of “Stephen, down!!” split the air. Stephen was blocking the narrow path, the center of a writhing ball of fury, arms pinned and completely outnumbered in a four-on-one fight. Kate’s flintlock pistol was helpless, each potential shot sure to maim or kill their friend along with the braves surrounding him.

Michael struggled free of the dead man’s body, jumping to Stephen’s aid –

Only to watch him make a final decision, swift and terrible, as he turned and _leapt_ out into the void taking those four braves with him.

“Stephen!” Michael screamed, falling to peer over the edge with Kate suddenly at his side.

There was nothing but a violent hole punched in the scrub below, branches on the edge heaving in their passage. Stephen was gone.

“Well!” came a voice to their left. A pleased voice. A _happy_ voice. A voice singing lullabies, that had carved its initials beyond Michael’s memories into his nightmares, here again as if not a day had passed since that night in the clearing.

“I hoped so much that you would come,” Black Sheep said.

Michael turned, unable at first to accept what his eyes and ears insisted was true. Black Sheep was there at the bare edge of a bend in the path, healthy and whole as if he were Lazarus himself. His face, though; his face was a ruined jack-o’-lantern, pushed in across his forehead and bulged out at the crown as if drawn by a sadistic child.

And he leaned Rob out over the drop, Rob who hadn’t even had a chance to clothe himself before being seized, hanging naked and bound and practically senseless from Black Sheep’s cruel grip. Cruel, and oh so easily withdrawn, to send him into plain air as surely as Stephen.

“Rob!” burst out of him, against his will, and Kate’s grip was steel on his wrist. Rob’s eyes gave the slightest flicker, light as a butterfly flapping its wings, but he stayed silent, face slack and head lolled to one shoulder.

“Take me instead! You don’t need him!”

At that, Black Sheep’s monstrous face split in a delighted grin, an absurd expression in their deadly stalemate. “My dearest man. You make my heart so happy. Do you know how badly I hoped to see you again? Ever since we parted, it was the one thing that put a flame in me. Finding you.” He paused to gaze down at Rob, and Michael felt the tracks of the monster’s eyes on his own body just as they traveled down his man’s nakedness.

“Then, when I find you, I receive another gift. I see you in your bed, and you’ve found a toy of your own, and my, he is a pretty one.” Black Sheep lifted his head, and the grin was gone, finally. _All_ animation was gone, his eyes flat and cold. “You learned quickly, pet. You learned how good it is to own something. But you forgot that you are mine.

“It’s time to remember your place,” Black Sheep said, with a terrible note of kindness –

The tendons relaxed in his forearm –

Rob began to fall –

And Kate’s gun cracked the world apart yet again, the man who had changed his life forever vanishing in a blur of red, as Black Sheep jerked back and was gone.

And Michael _flew,_ he was all motion arcing through the smoky air with outstretched arms, willing his fingertips just a bit longer.

*

“So! Bathroom break?” Sousuke asks, glancing up from his laptop at the six of them (and Kisumi on the TV) falling off the edge of their various seats. All except Haru, of course, who’s reclined back in some ergonomic folding chair Sousuke pulled out of storage, _painting his fucking nails._

And smiling.

Makoto joins the uncontrolled scream of horror that goes up from the room (again, minus Haru). He releases the death-grip he didn’t even realize he had on Rin’s elbow, vaguely turning to find Rin is just as… emotionally done.

“You better catch me. You just better,” he whispers in Makoto’s ear, somewhere between promise and threat.

And Sousuke takes pity on them all, on Nagisa and Rei wrapped up in each other as desperately as he and Rin, on Gou with her arm slung around Sei’s shoulders, on he and Rin in their state of obvious crisis. On poor Kisumi who has no one to fulfill his need for physical comfort in New York, who appears to be clutching a body pillow with all his might.

He and Haru exchange a little nod. Then he starts to read again.

***

The feel of Rob’s arm in his hand was unreal, at first. There was no way such a hopeless act could be rewarded by fate. No way that Michael could have reached out with his imperfect body, aiming all his _will_ at this man, and somehow met his mark. Not after the shock of Stephen’s sacrifice and the rebirth of that demon.

Yet he couldn’t deny it.

Kate was beside him then, as if she had always been there, straining down with all _her_ indomitable will to grab hold of some part of her brother. Her brother, who was pressed cruelly against the jagged cliff face and beginning to struggle back to awareness in all the tumult.

“Don’t move! We almost have you!” Michael choked, then reached deep within to _pull –_

And Rob was safe, sliding into their laps and sending them both reeling with the force it took to deliver him. He was filthy, and sweat-slick, marked with abrasions and an angry purple blow across his cheek. But he was _alive,_ his man was alive, and his eyes blinked slowly up at them with returning awareness.

He bent, cradling Rob’s injured face in his hands, and pressed the softest of kisses on his dirty forehead. He was rewarded with a look of peace, drifting over his man’s face as Rob closed his eyes.

Michael straightened and fumbled out to wrap Kate in a tight arm. Her face was calm, drawn, as she gazed east, the sun finally over the far hills and warm on their skin. He turned to follow her gaze. They sat a while, in grief for what was lost and in gladness for what they still had.

***

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for riding this crazy-train as it rolls towards its inevitable end (closer, now ;D). It’s surreal to finally get to the reveal I’ve had in mind since starting the “novel in the novel”. Cause hey, if there’s one thing the [true story of Phineas Gage](http://www.slate.com/articles/health_and_science/science/2014/05/phineas_gage_neuroscience_case_true_story_of_famous_frontal_lobe_patient.html) proves, it’s that people can survive the unsurvivable. Handy stuff if you’re writing a villain!

The past few months have seen a total treasure trove of Free!fics by some of the most talented peeps here. I can’t wait to catch up on them now that this chapter is off my brain! Thank you again for reading this or any other Free fic, you keep this fandom alive <3


	39. Constructive criticism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you fabulous people, it's so good to be back with you after so long! Ay caramba...

Sousuke finishes the last sentence, and a silence stretches out across the room. It’s the kind of silence that follows the final movement of a symphony, when the _thing_ that just happened is too big, too messy, too beautiful, blocking-up the entrance to their normal lives and leaving them stranded and speechless.

Gou comes back to herself… to discover the extent to which she’s draped herself on Sei. He’s wearing her as a sweater, basically, one of those pastel golf things where she’s knotted all up around his shoulders. She releases him, fast, as if speed will erase her faux pas. She’s surprised when he grabs her before she can get fully away, and she looks up from his big hand on her forearm smack into his eyes. His _very pretty_ eyes.

“Stay,” he says, low under his breath like he’s trying to keep it on the QT for them, pitching it up like a question.

“I’m all over you,” she whispers apologetically. She snorts to herself. “Jesus. Take a guy to dinner first.”

And then he’s totally fucking negating her half-hearted embarrassment, pulling her arm back up and around his shoulders like it’s a cozy quilt. Or some ridiculously cute shit like that.

 _And_ he’s reading her mind, leaning down to explain, “You’re warm. I’m selfish.” He shrugs, half self-deprecating, half cheerful _what are you gonna do?_ and that’s when she tips over from _should I...?_ to _YES._ She doesn’t know if it’s the spell still hanging heavy in the room – where improbably no one has busted it to argue or snark (or anything??). Or if it’s the Shakespeare-worthy drama she just shared with him, the lines between fiction and reality smearing and blurring. 

Or if she’s fooling herself, and it’s as simple as _his_ heat, the stretch of his shoulders, the way his little grin is both _aw, shucks_ and the filthiest, best kind of promise.

Meanwhile outside her self-indulgent swirl, Haru’s secret long-distance boyfriend (???) is throwing some kind of fit on Sousuke’s giant TV.

“Are – are you _kidding_ me??” Kisumi yells (and oh, isn’t Gou just going to _enjoy_ poking Haru about that name). He’s shoving his obscenely-pretty face (and isn’t Gou going to also enjoy slamming Haru for being a shallow bastard all along) into his webcam like he’s trying to bridge time and space to join them.

“Fuck, you guys! That was so good. _So good._ C’mon, now.” He pushes back from the screen, point apparently made.

“Um, you’re just saying that ‘cause you’ve been paid off in sexual favors.” Haru successfully claims the floor before any of the other rabble. He has this smile fighting its way into existence, this big and awkward thing that turns him into a teenager again. He almost (almost!) looks embarrassed. Gou thinks, _this project was worth it just to get Haru looking like that._

“LIES!” Kisumi bellows, pelting what looks like a handful of popcorn at the screen.

Things degenerate into over-stimulated chaos at that point. Sousuke gets in an involved and way-too sexually-charged three-way argument with his writing partner and the college kid onscreen, all of them falling into it with prickly familiarity. Across the room her brother and his apparent soulmate are sharing a recliner, Rin in Makoto’s lap, wrapped up in some intense exchange. She’s surprised that she feels absolutely no desire to overhear them. It probably violates some basic longstanding principle of their relationship… and maybe that’s okay. So much change going on, maybe she can do a little changing of her own.

Gou reaches over to her business partners at the other end of the couch, catching Rei as he fumbles out to her at the same time, so they end up in a kind of crumpled high-five. His eyes are wet behind his glasses. Behind him, Nagisa is crying too, struggling to keep his face composed even as tears track freely down his face. They both look wrung-out, propped against each other like a couple of rag-dolls.  

“So, do you guys feel like new parents at the hospital, or what?” she asks, only half-kidding.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” Rei says, and his voice is small, far away. He makes a valiant effort to smile back at her. “I know we should be happy they brought it in so fast. But I’m going to miss this.” He gently touches his husband’s knee. “ _We’re_ going to miss this.”

She gets up then, leaning over awkwardly to throw her arms around them both. They hug her back.

“Hey,” she’s finally able to say, after swallowing down a lump of sympathy tears. She knows why they’re all losing it. It’s so strange, to be sitting together, at the end of their little experiment. It’s that overwhelming mix of triumph and grief, that she hasn’t experienced since Rin’s last performance in his high school senior play. She and their mom screamed themselves hoarse with the rest of the crowd as he ran out last to take his bows. He’d just been so _happy_ through the whole improbable thing – her jock brother, actor?? – coming home late from practice flushed and _energized,_ blabbing to them in the kitchen until the high wore off and he’d pass out on the table.

In the audience that night, Gou and their mom watched Rin find himself – only to lose his way, for so long. And here, so many years later, she watched and listened as they all found themselves. The book was like a play, Haru and Sousuke the directors, Nagisa and Rei on sound and lights and promotion, she and Sei and Kisumi and Makoto and her ridiculously theatrical bro filling out the acting stable. And she was already impatient for the next one.

“Hey, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, if you know what I mean. Start looking for some big obnoxious thing to blow all your new money on, ‘cause I think we are about to get _rich.”_

Rei sputters adorably, something about there being more to life than consumerism, and she honks out her laugh, because that just may be the most-Rei thing she’s ever heard.

“Come on. Not even those matching scrotal piercings you’ve always wanted?” Haru’s calling over. He hasn’t budged from his seat, which is hilarious, because clearly he’s eavesdropping on them. It’s like he and Gou have mysteriously swapped bodies, Freaky Friday-style.

“I don’t know. I think they’re more Prince Albert types,” Sousuke argues from the other side of the room.

“How would _you_ know?” Haru shoots back suspiciously, and Kisumi’s giggling like a fool and then their skewed little threesome is off again.

She hauls herself to her feet, shaking her head sadly at how a couple guys can simultaneously be so smart and so DUMB. “Well, that appears to be our cue,” she says in her best manager-voice to their contingent on the couch. “Let’s give these boys their privacy.”

Everyone who isn’t a part of her brother’s little sex-colony gets up, and there’s a tangle of hugging and back-slapping before anyone can make it out the door. She threads through the confusion to Haru, grabbing his cheeks and kissing him.

“Thanks for making me the coolest character in the whole thing.”

“Thanks for BEING the coolest character in the whole thing,” he replies with absolute sincerity.

“Hey!!” Rin protests (predictably), pushing into the middle of her little moment with Haru. She grabs his cheeks before he can say anything more, dragging him down to her level and giving him another exuberant kiss. Makoto laughs at them, leaning in to leave his own quick peck on her cheek.

Sousuke’s waiting at the door to shake hands with them as they shamble out. Nagisa hangs back to whisper a few words to Haru, then ignores Sousuke’s outstretched hand to grab the big man around the waist. If Haru looks 16 when he grins, Gou thinks, Nagisa looks about eight when he gives one of his hugs. Sousuke protests, but it’s all for show.

No one talks as they make their way to the lobby and out the door. Rei and Nagisa take their leave quickly, eyes still red and raw. She watches their familiar silhouettes as they recede down the block, the tall and the small merging together into the dusk.

Then it’s just Sei, standing quietly beside her on the sidewalk with his hands in the pockets of a beat-up old bomber jacket. It looks like something he’s had a long time, since college maybe, the brown leather soft and weathered. Like he didn’t see the point in fixing what most-definitely wasn’t broken. It’s chilly out, the November air particularly biting after the near-sauna-conditions of Sousuke’s place. But somehow, it doesn’t bother her at all.

“Looks like we’re the last of the Mohicans,” he says. Good taste would seem to dictate that such a bad one-liner be delivered with an _I’m sorry this is so cheesy_ edge. Sei shows no such shame.

She grabs his forearm, fiercely. It’s the same gesture that he used on her, and she’s amused (and a little gratified) to feel him go totally still under her hand.

“I think you need to get your supposed ‘friend’ back for murdering you. That was awful. _Awful._ ” She suddenly realizes she isn’t really kidding. “I know you clearly get all the points for ‘noble self-sacrifice’ but what the fuck are we all supposed to do without you?”

She smiles darkly to herself, her mind’s eye drifting back to the mountain trail. “Funniest thing, is I LOVE angsty endings. You should hear me in other read-throughs. If half the principals aren’t dead, I give it a pass. I’m worse than Quentin Tarantino.” He laughs at that, eyes crinkling into delighted squints.

“I hear a but.”

“BUT,” she grins, “I guess everything changes when _you’re_ the one in the story. I think I have to finally follow through on my threats to bust Sousuke’s balls this time.”

“Ah, go easy on ‘em. Notice they never actually showed what happened. I smell sequel…”

She smacks his chest with the flat of her palm like an auctioneer closing bidding. “Shit! You’re right…”

Then there’s this little lull, and she realizes she doesn’t want this… _thing_ they have going tonight to end yet. It just feels too good, the way he’s so easy in a conversation, it’s practically like having a dance partner who can keep up with the band no matter what they’re playing. His easy confidence is attractive, too. It’s this stubborn sense, that he knows himself well and isn’t afraid to put himself into a situation, that he can pretty much roll with whatever’s coming. It reminds Gou of Miho.

Dimly, her brain – her oh, so practical and common-sense brain – digs up an old quote. She can’t remember what big movie-star said it (George Clooney…?). It was a word of warning: _don’t fall in love on set._ Actors live a shared delusion – a “folie a beaucoup” – for months at a time. How could they not get involved?

 _Of course, you always_ were _a greedy bitch,_ she thinks matter-of-factly. _So there’s THAT._

“Can I ask you something?” Sei finally asks her, like he was wrapped up in thoughts of his own. “Why haven’t we spent more time together?” He laughs, under his breath; for maybe the first time since she’s met him, he sounds uncertain. “True confession-time, but I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since that night we played strip poker.”

“Um, the night HARU played strip poker,” she corrects automatically, then her mouth amends, “And oh, I would’ve loved to watch you lose.”

Sei nods, slowly, that wicked _gotcha!_ grin firmly back in place. It’s her turn to laugh breathlessly.

“Okay. So. This is the dumbest cliché in the history of clichés.” They have to move aside as a guy in a designer suit strides past, giving them a curious once-over. Sei’s gaze doesn’t waver, watching her patiently like she’s about to divulge some massive movie spoiler. “I’m in the middle of this… thing already. And we haven’t actually defined what the hell we are to each other yet.” She shrugs and finally jumps out of the metaphoric plane. “And, she’s a woman.”

His face doesn’t change. He doesn’t pull back in instinctual disgust, he doesn’t (worse) lean in with new interest.

“Well, that answers that. She’s a lucky lady,” he says. She thinks there’s a disappointed off-note to his voice but he hides it well.

“She’s great,” Gou says, completely honestly. “My god. The other night, I thought we were just getting together to do dinner and a little shopping. Turns out, she’s been reading up on sociology in her spare time –“ She delicately sidesteps the issue of _free time from what?_ – “And she decided it’d be fun to try some, uh, aberrant behavior experiments.”

“Really.” The off-note has become _tell me more_.

“Oh, yes. Only, one correction.” She holds up a finger, reveling in the satisfaction of a good audience. “She decided it’d be fun to make _me_ run her little experiments, while she watched from a distance. And took notes, or something.”

He’s covering his mouth with one hand at this point. “ _Please_ tell me she was getting video of this.”

“Pervert.”

“Hey, it’s for _science!_ ”

“Surrre.” She feels Sei’s wicked grin creeping onto her face. “Ugh, you know how bad we all are at rocking the boat, we almost die of embarrassment. And it’s not like she was having me strip on the train and do a K-pop dance number or something.” He shows admirable self-control at her clear attempt to bait him by this point, just nodding politely. “She started me off nice and slow, just had me go up to random people at the mall, ask them for the time when I was wearing a giant watch already, ask them for directions to the store we were standing in front of. That kind of thing. By the end of the night I was so fearless, I was polling people on their favorite sexual position. I had NO idea grandmas were so kinky.”

And she’s got him, he’s leaning back and sending the most shamelessly-aberrant unhinged laugh up to the sky.

“…so, I want to do two things,” he finally says, staring intently down like he’s about to hand her his business card. “I have _got_ to meet this woman sometime. And I’d love to take you to dinner. It feels like about a thousand years since those steaks.”

Her stomach growls in a perfect Pavlov’s-dog moment. “God, only Sousuke would serve _prime rib_ at a casual get-together. I thought my brother was going to stroke out. Now THAT’S a man who loves his beef.”

“He must be in heaven, then,” he says almost kindly in full understanding. She smiles up at him.

“Yes, to both things, by the way. I think you’ll get along great with Miho,” she introduces without thinking, as if sharing her name will ward off any bad luck Gou may be about to incur. “And I’m so hungry I’m ready to eat a goddamn elephant. Want to grab a pizza?”

“Pizza is my happy place,” he replies instantly. She’s laughing as they head to the train, settling her hand in the crook of his elbow and matching his stride.

*

Haru can’t find Nagisa when he steps into the club. Part of that is how damn dark it is; yes, he understands the need to give guests at least the illusion of discretion when they want to get their gay-stripping on, but he still feels like he just dropped down a mineshaft. Minus the awesome Village People hardhat and pickaxe, that is.

After blinking around the foyer for a while waiting where his oldest friend instructed, he gives up and heads over to the bar. It’s a tasteful number in the shape of a giant heart, covered in hot-pink neon, the bartender trapped in the middle like some alien bringing a message of intergalactic love to the people of Earth. He’s sipping an energy drink and looking bored as Haru steps up.

“I’m looking for someone,” he starts, but the guy interrupts him before he can even give an unflattering description.

“Haru? Nanase Haru?” the bartender asks, and Haru’s tempted to order a martini, shaken, not stirred. The guy pulls a bottle of something from the fridge and slides it to him. Haru blinks down at a tall, frosty, bubbly artisan water with what looks like little yellow erasers floating in it.

“They’re pineapples. He said you don’t drink,” the guy explains, then points somewhere over Haru’s shoulder. “He’s in one of our private experience suites. Number one.”

“Of course he is,” Haru says, and scoops up the pornographically-fancy water as he turns to go. It’s almost creepy, how well Nagisa knows him. It’s just the kind of sneaky, borderline-emotional-blackmail gesture Haru expects, as if asking him to come screen prospective “book-jacket models” at Nagisa’s favorite strip club wasn’t entrapment enough.

 _He should play the Godfather,_ Haru thinks. In a yakuza remake. He files the thought away to share with Sou.

The place is pretty much dead, only the most addicted or just-plain unemployed stripping enthusiasts here on a Monday afternoon. Haru passes the main stage, where a guy is gyrating mechanically to “Sexy and I Know It.” Despite the guy’s Marvel-comics worthy body, he seems to be missing a certain… spark of inspiration. He looks like he’s counting his dance steps in his head. The handful of guys scattered in the audience look equally distracted.

A bouncer is stationed at the private rooms, and the burly guy nods discreetly as Haru approaches, sliding the door to #1 open for him.

Haru can’t stand all the wish-fulfillment on display any longer. He’s barely able to get his ass in the room before busting out with “So, are you officially a Bond villain now?”

Nagisa – indeed, in pure Dr. Evil style – is in a swanky executive-ish rolling chair, which he spins around at Haru’s entrance. A basically-nude guy (in a Tarzan-loincloth, Haru notes with amusement) pauses politely in the middle of some truly-impressive twerking, turning and catching a breath with his hands on his hips.

“Haru!!” his friend exclaims, and then Haru’s attacked, his arms full of petite hot warmth and his face full of floofy, familiar hair as Nagisa nestles their heads together. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Well duh, of course. Naked guys, Nagisa,” Haru says. He patiently allows Nagi’s boa constrictor hug, the squeeze like some kind of intense sensory-management therapy, his mind unable to think of anything else while his body is surrounded by Nagisa.

Finally, Nagisa lets him go and he’s able to breathe fully again. He pulls them over to where Haru now sees two Sousuke-Master-of-the-Universe boardroom chairs, insistently pushing Haru into one. Haru glances up awkwardly at the interrupted stripper, who’s leaning on the wall and serenely checking his phone. Haru wonders momentarily where on that costume he may have been keeping it.

“So! Yes, I dragged you here to check out some possible cover models, true. Gotta get this one right, given the million-plus copies we’re gonna sell, right?? Plus it’s just so good to see you and have a chance to catch up. It’s been so long.” Nagisa smiles at him, and in the tasteful lighting of the private room his color is weirdly high, even for Nagisa. He squeezes Haru’s knee.

“Do you need anything else? Snacks? More pillows? A stiff drink?” He waggles his well-groomed eyebrows. “A stiff something-else?”

Haru snorts. “Nah, that fruity-water is plenty, thanks.” He takes a long swallow from the bottle and smacks his lips. “I think I have plenty stiff-something-else at the moment, it’s nice to get away from that for a while.”

The idled stripper lets out a giggle at that (eavesdropper) and Nagisa rolls their chairs closer so he doesn’t have to reach so far to manhandle Haru’s knee. “No doubt, Haru-chan. You kinda went from zero to 60 on that. Though, you never DID do anything half-assed, so why should this be different?”

“I blame you,” Haru says with finality and no explanation. Nagisa appears to need none. He waves a hand at the supremely-buff guy waiting on them – who, Haru _guesses_ could be a Rin/Rob Miller… if he squints – and the guy nods, tossing his phone on the floor. He resumes his businesslike twerking.

Nagisa turns back so casually, like commanding men to dance for his entertainment is a ho-hum experience for him, that Haru has to snort again. “Seriously, though, how’s this poly-thing working for you, Haru? Do you guys all get along?” He turns to Haru with suspicious purpose. “How’s the sex?”

Haru sucks in a mouthful of pineapple and chews, stalling. “You want a diagram?”

That gets their private dancer laughing uproariously. Nagisa holds up a hand. “Why don’t we quit there, Tomo. I’ll let you know if we have anything for you.”

The guy gives Nagisa a polite little bow before scooping up his phone and slipping through a curtain behind him. Haru shakes his head in wonder.

“You really are good at this. I think you may have missed your calling.” He squints, imagining Nagisa in a beret with a bullhorn. “You’d make an amazing director.”

Nagisa shrugs carelessly. “Eh, no one knows what their calling is. Except maybe you, Haru. It must’ve been nice to always know what you were meant to do.”

Then he shuts his mouth, staring down at the floor, while Haru waits for elucidation. He finally puts in, “Well, yes and no, given that my chosen career path is one big impractical wank,” which he only slightly believes but which is also indisputable truth. Nagisa stays silent. Which, for Nagisa, is pretty much a Never Event.

“Are…” Haru starts, tentatively, “…are you looking at some kind of change at ReadFree? Moving into manga, or something?” He’s kidding, and not, and still Nagisa hasn’t looked up.

“Nagisa…?”

“We’re separating,” he finally, finally says.

Haru blinks. “Who’s separating? Are you guys selling it off?”

“ _We’re_ separating. Me and Rei.”

It’s Haru’s turn to stare, vacantly, wordlessly, Nagisa making no sense at fucking all.

Nagisa’s looking up, though he hasn’t dragged his eyes over to meet Haru’s yet. He nods, with such finality all his curls shake. “Yup. I offered to be the one to move out but he wouldn’t hear of it. You know Rei.” He smiles for a second, whether in earnest or sarcasm Haru can’t read, but his eyes are bright with a gleam he knows are tears. Nagisa always was more apt to cry than pretty much anyone in Haru’s life. But his face is fixed, and angry, and those spots of high color burn in his cheeks.

Haru’s finally, _finally_ able to speak, and the words come busting out of him. “What? Nagisa, what the fuck, _you_ guys can’t split up! You guys are _meant_ to be together!”

Nagisa stabs his eyes at Haru. “Sure, yeah. There you go talking about things that are meant to be again. I wish I had what you have, Haru. You don’t know how much I wish that.”

Haru’s standing, sweeping one hand at himself in a mocking _ta da!_ “What, my total lack of motivation and my talent for falling into some of the stupidest fucking decisions a person can make?”

“Your _certainty,_ okay? Your fucking certainty. I don’t know if I’ve been sure about anything in my fucking life, I can’t imagine what that must be like,” and his old friend’s words are angry, practically venomous – but his voice is quiet, and sad. Total mismatch. That electric energy’s gone from his little face, too, draining out or deflating or some other stupid overused metaphor, and Haru’s suddenly ashamed, at making this terrible thing all about him.

Haru sits back in his chair, wheels it around so they’re facing each other, knees bumping knees. He leans in and scoops Nagisa’s hands between his own.

“Okay. Fuck me. It’s you. What… what happened??”

Nagisa’s gazing down at their joined hands. “We haven’t seen you, in so long, Haru. We’ve really, really missed you.” He pauses, and Haru frowns; what the fuck does this thing have to do with him? Nagisa sighs and moves on. “We used to have so much fun, right? You don’t know how much I loved having you over for our bad B-movie nights. Getting to eat all your gourmet cooking.” He raises his face, and Haru almost can’t look him in the eyes. “Rei and I used to have so much fun too. We haven’t had fun in a long time, Haru. Rei’s at work all the time, I’m fucking exhausted. If we aren’t together in some meeting or other, we might see each other falling comatose into bed. If we’re lucky.” He (gently) pulls his hands free, to run them angrily through his curls.

“I always knew we were different people. I mean, REALLY different. Polar fucking opposite different. I just never thought through what that difference would mean when things got hard.” He scoff-laughs, a sound Haru’s never heard out of him. “All Rei DOES is work! If he’s not working, he’s so stressed, and critical, and distant. _Polite._ ” And Haru’s never heard Nagisa’s voice sound so sarcastic, either.

He shakes his head in disbelief. “But – you guys love your business. It’s your baby! _Mohicans_ is practically your baby, you’ve enjoyed it that much.”

Nagisa leans in, wrapping his arms around Haru loosely, turning his head onto Haru’s shoulder, like _Haru’s_ the one needing comfort. “Oh, Haru-chan. No, your book is the only one we’ve enjoyed. For a long time, now.”

And Haru just sits, for what feels like a long time, his brain ticking off meaningless observations in some kind of survival-skill loop. A sour pain in his stomach. The sound of a hairdryer whirring away behind him. There’s a poster tacked up in the corner, like it’s purposefully out of view of the clientele, and Haru notices it’s a first aid how-to for CPR and the Heimlich maneuver. So if some lying, cheating bastard in here has a heart attack during all his excitement, the poor dancer will be ready to save his sorry ass.

“…I do not know how the fuck I didn’t see this coming. You guys are meant for each other, that’s all I know, that’s all that makes sense.” He shuts up, then, squeezing Nagisa as hard as he can. He doesn’t say he’s sorry, but he thinks his friend hears him.

***

I’m sorry :/

I really, really hope this doesn’t feel out of left field or, worse, like drama for drama’s sake, b/c doing that in a story is a crime (or, should be, anyway). “Perfect couples” split up all the time, especially when as Nagisa says they meet more stressors than they can handle. And it’s even worse for the people who love them, wondering how something that big could get missed. On the plus side, Haru’s done being passive. And how ‘bout that SeiGou? ;)

Thank you so much for reading, you all are the best and it can’t be said enough <3

**Author's Note:**

> I love feedback (OF ANY KIND) as much as donuts. Which is pretty damn much :D. Thank you so much for reading!


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